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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888963">Tales of the Pulse Part 2 - Crushes and Consequences</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titan_MassMind/pseuds/Titan_MassMind'>Titan_MassMind</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tales of the Pulse [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Harley Quinn (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BDSM, Crushing, Death, F/F, F/M, Female Muscle - Freeform, Femdom, Multi, female muscle fetish, female muscle growth, mini-giantess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:48:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>132,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888963</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titan_MassMind/pseuds/Titan_MassMind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2004.  The Pulse has come and it's played its favorites.  It's also played its little jokes.</p><p>Harley Quinn, still the Joker's Moll, is one of the one in fifty-five thousand women (more or less) blessed with terrifying size, strength, and other abilities so far beyond even Kryptonians or New Gods that their extent cannot be counted in even planets, were it not for the power of the changed Earth.</p><p>The Titan Massmind of Earth, Gaia-Geb, is jailer and parent to the Hunters.  Her-his power reigns supreme, though she-he does not act to control their lives, only the extent of their power.  But she-he does rule over the living and the dead, the animate and the inanimate.  The supremacy of Stone, of the Melt draws overall.</p><p>Poison Ivy is deep within the Green.  Resting there.  Safe from Hunters, forever; the Green, safe from Humanity, forever.</p><p>What does she need with the world?  What does she need with a place that will be ruled by, with, and for, pain?</p><p>She might have been a Hunter, had she not been betrayed and altered.  But she is not.</p><p>She might have been Harley Quinn's Pride-bonded, were she a Hunter.  But she is not.</p><p>Can the power of the Green make them one?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy, The Arm (Harley Quinn Cartoon)/Jim Gordon, harley quinn/calculator, harley quinn/killer croc, harley quinn/poison ivy/calculator, harley quinn/poison ivy/killer croc, harley quinn/poison ivy/killer croc/calculator, poison ivy/killer croc/calculator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tales of the Pulse [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The time is a few hours after the Pulse.  The place is Gotham, but not the Gotham of a few hours ago.</p><p>They say the Bat is dead.  They say the Bat haunts all Hunters.  They say the Bat has created a suit of armor from transcendental metals to destroy them and wipe the changed Earth clean.</p><p>Whatever else is true, though...</p><p>The Bat isn't constraining them now, and Gotham is as wracked as any other major city.  Roughly one in one hundred thousand people...</p><p>Or rather less, if you only count women...</p><p>Have become giant, hulking, hungering Hunters.</p><p>And Harley Quinn is one of them.</p><p>Poison Ivy is not, but she would woo her Harley anyway.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A Few Hours After the Pulse</p><p>A Small Gotham Diner</p><p>The dazed young man wearing nothing but a smile and what appears to be a Chiquita Banana t-shirt reworked into thong underwear takes their orders.  One huge blonde woman with pigtails, pale of skin, thickly muscled, and thickly curved, and her dinner companion, a tough-looking woman all in green save for a mane of wavy red hair that spirals down beside her to the top of her ass.  It's coiled onto her hip to avoid being sat on.</p><p>They're wearing less than he is, but it's pretty clear who's in charge.</p><p>He wanders off towards the kitchen with their orders and menu.  There are three pitchers on the table, and two glasses.  The green woman is drinking just water, and dubiously at that.  The blonde…</p><p>Is mixing Orange Faygo and Vanilla Pepsi.  So it goes.</p><p>"So…  Seven foot seven, huh, Harley?  Or will you be using two point three-one meters?"</p><p>"Ehhhh."  The now gigantic Harley Quinn waggles her hand back and forth.  "I dunno, Red.  Just onna 'ccount of my new smarts… an' new heft… an' new look… don't mean I gotta change my <em> me, </em> right?"</p><p>Poison Ivy-- Pamela Isley if you're suicidal, occasionally Pammie or Red if you're Harley Quinn-- smiles up at her often-ally, often-major irritation, and always, best friend.  <em> Sometimes, I've hoped for more.  Now-- I'm gambling on it. </em></p><p><em> So let's just hope that's in your </em> real <em> "you," Harley. </em></p><p>"You were always smart, but-- I suppose not," Ivy says.  "In fact-- I have to wonder just who could push you around now."</p><p>It's a fair quandary.  Harley's not just grown taller; taller than Bane, the man who broke the Bat, at least for a time.  She's bigger than Bane now, too, in all sorts of ways.</p><p>Ivy's used to working around some fairly ripped individuals.  They're not exclusive, of course.  Body types like the Penguin's can be found far too easily.  The Mad Hatter could do with more time at the gym, and less tea and cakes, for example.</p><p>But right now, Ivy's best and perhaps only real friend outside the Green makes Bane look like Cobblepot-- short, squat, and flabby.  <em> She's huge! </em> Ivy thinks, admiring how far and how much Harley's grown.</p><p>Her sweet and tart smile is still there, as is the paleness of skin that will never fade.  Her head's grown proportionally to the new body-- none of Harley looks <em> wrong </em>, the way, well, Bane does when his limbs inflate and his torso bulges.  She looks like she was born to be this big.</p><p>
  <em> Like the lithe and willowy Harley I knew was a sapling, and here's the mature oak. </em>
</p><p>But below the neck… that's where the real bulk starts.  Her back and shoulder muscles have expanded, a curved dome that leads into and supports her corded neck.  With the striations and other definition outlined in taut skin, Ivy fancies that Harley's top looks like a tree grown wild with pale, pumped power instead of leaves.</p><p>"Ya lookin' a bit hot around the collar, Red," Harley says, eyes twinkling.  "Them ain't pheromones I'm sniffin', are they?"  Her accent thickens a bit; her ths sounding more like ds, or even just hard-ts.</p><p>Ivy has to laugh.  "Harley, I don't think an <em> Earth </em> full of my finest concoctions could touch you now-- and that's even if you somehow managed to burn out the immunization I gave you so long ago."  She blushes a bit, the green of her skin growing towards a mossy shade.</p><p>"There are some pheromones," she whispers softly, turning her head slightly to the side, then smiling back up (way up) at her friend.  "But not the kind that would force even some high society drooler to give up a dollar, let alone compel <em> you </em>."</p><p>Trembling as though from some ethereal wind, Poison Ivy's fingers reach forward, and Harley smiles, leaning across the table and offering up her left arm.  Ivy brushes her fingers backwards over the immense swells of just Harley's forearm, broader than Ivy's own <em> leg </em>.  She trails her fingers over the smooth primary bulges, like roots seeking for soil and finding only stone.</p><p>She chuckles slightly as she feels the faint double layer on the muscles.  When Harley bobs her head to the side, multicolored tips bouncing, Ivy runs her index finger where two extensors come together.  Each individual muscle is not only clearly distinct from its tight-packed mate, but the individual bands and fibers that make up the whole show as clear, giant grooves.</p><p>"I see you finally got your secondaries in, Harley," she explains.  "I always wondered if they would."</p><p>Metahumans, scientific or magical, male and female, often appear to develop larger, more-complex seeming musculature.  It's not; instead, over the primary bulk that often resembles a bodybuilder more than a weightlifter, there's a layer, thin to thick, that follows, reinforces, and protects the existing muscles.  It's why even metas whose powers have nothing to do with super-strength can take quite a beating, and even their skinnier members can do complex acrobatics in costumes that outweigh an army soldier's pack.</p><p>This doesn't always turn you into a hulking monster like Bane or Solomon Grundy.  Poison Ivy herself has had them from time to time, but like many a plant, she's metamorphosed over her lifespan, adapting to fit the seasons of her life.  Sometimes, she's been tough and toned like Catwoman; sometimes, she's been tall and sturdy, and sometimes she's been so willowy that it was hard to tell if the secondary layer was there at all, or if it had been shed like some form of husk.</p><p>She has the extra layer now, in fact; she looks and feels a little bit like Power Girl gone to the Green, except for her long red mane-- and the leaves.  She's still got her own elegant cast and form, but her extra strength makes her skin look like bark, slightly alien curves and angles accentuating the main body.  Harley's looks like a strong human woman's form idealized-- as though the mass always <em> should </em> have been there, but most women simply never get the chance to make this final growth.</p><p>"Heh," Harley giggles, curling her hand into a balled fist.  "Would?  Like layas of <em> would </em> an' bark?" </p><p>Poison Ivy gasps; if she hadn't moved fast, the slow pump of power through just the back of Harley's arm would have pinched her fingers in place.  "It wasn't that bad of a pun, I thought," Harley pouts.</p><p>"Harley!" Ivy grouches, and swats the bigger woman's forearm lightly.  "Ouch!"</p><p>Wringing out her hand and the soreness, Ivy gasps.  "By the Green!  You're like solid stone."  Carefully, she prods against Harley's enormous bicep, the bulge there thicker than Ivy's <em> chest </em>, covered in that same extra layer, and…</p><p>"Harley," Ivy repeats, blinking.  Her fingers squeeze against an impermeable little extra bulge around the far head of the bicep, near the elbow.  It almost looks like another bicep itself, clinging to the main muscle and...</p><p>"Why, it looks like you've got a bicep <em> on </em> your bicep's… extra little… bicep?"  <em> A tertiary set of muscular adaptations. </em>   Pamela Isley was a botanist, but she has the basic training, and she's had to study animal anatomy for her various plans and plots.  <em> It looks like they link up to the main somehow? </em></p><p>"Yo, Pammie!" Harley says cheerfully as Ivy blinks on.  "Heard ya liked muscle on ya ladies, so I guess I grew muscles on… your lady's muscles, so you could feel muscles while you muscle?"</p><p>The huge blonde frowns.  "Hmm; needs work," she says, the 'or' definitely going to a Gothamite Bowery girl's 'oi'.  Then she blushes, turning away from Ivy.</p><p>The extra muscles don't look deformed, like some mutant's extra arm.  No, they're graceful, smooth save for the grooves, and when looked at in a whole, form a fractal whorl not unlike some of Ivy's favorite flowers.  The tertiary muscles combine with the secondary and the primary to look like exactly like the expected anatomical outline.</p><p>
  <em> Just so much more.  Speaking of which... </em>
</p><p>"<em> Your </em> lady?" Poison Ivy asks softly, hoping for more than the fall of an errant joke's leaf.  She leans forward across the narrow diner table, running her hand up over the lightly vascular swell of Harley's shoulder, linking once more to that oak-hard back and corded neck.  Her other hand comes up to touch her palm to Harley's heated cheek.</p><p>It's odd, seeing a colossus like Harley has become shy away.  But Ivy notes that the pressure from her palm does move Harley's downcast face back towards her.  She knows that unless Harley permitted it, she couldn't move a <em> hair </em> on Harley's blonde-and-dyed head, let alone turn her to face what she does not want.</p><p>
  <em> Besides, turned like this, she's staring at my breasts.  If what the Quorum said was correct, that's at least a sign of interest, since she doesn't have to tilt her pupils to focus on something anymore.  I'll take it. </em>
</p><p>Ivy inhales deeply, making her own breasts swell.  They're truly well developed, impressive G-cup grandness that stands out even in the well-endowed supervillainess community.  She hasn't bothered with any clothes, and her nipples are as hard as, well, wood.</p><p>But compared to Harley…</p><p>"Aw, Pammie," Harley whispers.  Her eyes come up and search Ivy's face.  "Ya shouldn't do that.  We both know ya shouldn't, and I think ya know why, too."   Her accent thickens, like her heavy, breast-jiggling breathing.</p><p>Compared to Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy isn't the Green's Power Girl.  She's <em> Supergirl </em> to Harley's Power Girl-- or perhaps a Supergirl before she hit puberty, even.  Harley was always a chesty lady, even during those seasons when Ivy was willowy.</p><p>Now?  Now Harley's breasts are so large that they almost touch the top of the table from where she's sitting, seven foot seven (or two point three-one meters) or not!  Harley's managed to cobble up a black and red bikini, somehow sewing what looks like two short dresses, cut open and then carefully cut and re-sewn to make the cups and straps.</p><p>It barely holds them above her new super-six pack.</p><p><em> Or eight pack, or…  Do the tertiaries count for "pack"-ness? </em>  Poison Ivy was never really about the gymgoing, and if she did visit, it was usually to go minion shopping.</p><p>Actually, Harley's new tits don't look like they pay much attention to gravity.  With the heavy bulges of her pectoral muscles, the size of an office trashcan-- each!-- on top, the heft of her breasts looks remarkably pert and perky for the amount of jiggle contained therein.  Really, the only droop at all seems to follow the natural growth of breasts, and at that, far more naturally than what the Quorum grew Ivy to resemble.</p><p><em> Oh, minion-shopping days with Harley… At least I paid in more than the compelling kisses, </em> she reminds herself guiltily.  She's not proud of that portion of her life, sometimes.</p><p>But the only thing she's ever been ashamed of with Harley is not helping her enough.  It's when she failed Harley.  Not for being with her.</p><p>"I'm not ashamed to be with you, Harley," Ivy says stoutly.  "I'm not afraid, either."</p><p>Harley's lush curves and hard muscle shake.  "Maybe ya should be, Pammie."  Her delicious derriere wriggles in her seat, two perfect globes as shapely and jiggly as their larger cousins in front.  "Maybe ya should."</p><p>Crossed beneath the table are large legs indeed. Forget comparisons with the thigh that broke the Bat.  Not only are Harley's hips and legs (thankfully) far more feminine and curvy than Bane's, but each individual thigh looks bigger than the venom-fed musclefreak's whole <em> back </em>.</p><p>Harley Quinn is not a muscle freak now.  She is a muscle <em> goddess </em>, powerful, beautiful, and majestic.  And justifiably afraid.</p><p>Of herself.  She swallows heavily.  "I've had all th' human food in this joint, an' I'm still heavily considerin' some of the cat foot at this point.  I'm so <em> hungry, </em> Pammie!"</p><p>"Oh, Harley," Ivy sighs again.  "We both know that's not what you're hungry for."</p><p>It tugs at Ivy's soul to see the pain and sorrow twist over her best friend's face.  First taking a moment to brush away Harley's tears, Ivy runs her fingers up, along the line of Harley's jaw to her blonde hair, out to the red and blue tips.  "I like the hair.  Only you would find time in a disaster like this to dye."</p><p>She frowns, sniffing a bit.  "I'm not picking up any biochemicals, Harley, nor any--"  Her voice cuts off as Harley reaches up and takes her wrists, pulling them down to the table once more.</p><p>There, Harley folds Ivy's hands beneath her own much larger pair.  Eyes still lightly watering near her hair-matching eyeshadow, Harley softly says, "Ain't dye, Red.  I always wanted colors like these; now, they're just my hair."</p><p>Before Ivy can speak, Harley softly strokes her thumbs over Ivy's hands.  They run from the base knuckles of her graceful fingers, along the light green of her skin towards the barkier cast of her forearm.  It's all still green, like the moss her blushes resemble grew over it all.</p><p>Only Ivy's hair (eyebrows and neatly grown bush included) is red now; her teeth are still white.  Everything else is green, with the occasional greenish brown and near-black dark green for contrast.  Even her eyes are green-- a bright emerald for the iris, but the sclera is a very pale pastel green, and the pupil the darkest shade yet.</p><p>Harley inhales again, doing all sorts of things to her newly expanded physiology that make the human side of Ivy perk up-- and perk with interest, too.  "Red, you gotta go back."</p><p>A wince bursts across Harley's face as Ivy shrinks back from the gentle command.  "It's.. it's for <em> you </em>, Red.  Pammie.  You said you knew what the Hungers are-- then you gotta know, you gotta go back."</p><p>For the past several months, Poison Ivy has been withdrawn into the Green itself.  An immense magical shockwave hit the natural world, displacing the balance of the various Elemental Kingdoms and their Parliaments.  Once, long ago, the Melt, the ethereal realm ruled by the Parliament of Stones and from which all earth elementals and spirits ultimately draw their power, was at one with what would be called the Green, the plant elementals' kingdom.</p><p>When the first true plant life grew on Earth, the proto-Green was touched by representatives of a strange, fey kingdom-- which would itself later grow into the Divided, the hidden kingdom of bacterial life.  The Green blossomed, dividing from the Melt, and not always peacefully, to become their own independent voice for the planet itself.</p><p>The relationship has changed yet again, and in some ways, Poison Ivy, once Pamela Isley, has become that change's herald.  She steels herself, and shakes her head.  "I won't go back, Harley.  Gaia-Geb has sent me forth to witness the birth of the Hunters."</p><p>Gaia-Geb.  Harley's pained face shows shock, but not confusion.  Ivy can well imagine; the titan-massmind monarch doesn't just rule over the Melt.  All the Elemental Kingdoms, from the Black to the Clear to even the Metal, bow to the Melt now.</p><p>"That name," Harley whispers.  "Why does it feel like momma's touch, or poppa's smile…"</p><p>"Gaia-Geb was created because foolish men and women saw, well, <em> you </em>, Harley," Ivy explains.  "You, and all the others like you."</p><p>A little more than a hundred thousand were transformed by the power of the Pulse.  Of that number, Harley isn't even the biggest or the strongest; in fact, much as she's ever been, she's a little on the lithe side, but with some extra power (and plush) packed in the lower body.  Those long legs and their curvy hip tops retain at least some of their preeminence in an age full of beautiful predators.</p><p>Harley nods slowly to Ivy.  Encouraged, she continues.  "They foresaw a time when you'd all walk the Earth-- and where your strength would be such that you could destroy the Earth with a touch."</p><p>Harley eeps, and, struggling to pull herself into a cross-legged position, pops the steel tabletop off its bracketed single leg like it wasn't even connected.  "Promise I'll be caref--"  As the table spins in the air, flipping like a coin, a wind wooshes over Ivy, fluttering the leaves in her hair.  Harley, abruptly sitting indeed in the full lotus, yanks the spinning tabletop out of the air, and settles it back onto the post.</p><p>With the gum-covered bottom side up.  "Oo-oops," Harley giggles.  "Tails, I guess?   Eyeuch."</p><p>Sniffing with disdain, she taps the very edge of the upturned bottom, and to Ivy's disbelieving eyes, the bottom layer (and the remnant stump) scythes off.  Molten steel writhes off, evaporating the gum and other gunk.  Ivy can't even follow what happens next, but somehow, when the dust clears, Harley's actually used the thin layer of molten, cast-off steel to re-weld the table.</p><p>And then promptly yanked the anchoring leg up so that the table could rest on her gargantuan, rippling quads.  Ivy has to just sigh and shake her head, green lips smiling.  "Tails we win?" she asks hopefully.</p><p>Harley pushes her index fingers and thumbs together disconsolately on the table, making a not-so-little triangle.  "So, uh-- really, Pammie," Harley insists.  "You know ya can't stay.  If you know us, you know what I could do."</p><p>She squeezes her eyes shut, holding her head too far away for Ivy to wipe away her new tears.  "You know what I <em> want </em> to do to you, Ivy," she whispers.  "What I'm hungry for.</p><p>"I do," Ivy says, her expression hardening.  Brow furrowing and pupils narrow, she points at Harley.  "I do-- and I also know that you're <em> not </em> just an endless, hungering laugh with no end or stomach."</p><p>"Whaddya want from me, Ivy?" Harley shouts back, rattling the windows and sending Ivy's leaf-wreathed hair flowing out behind her.  "You never wanted ta be a potted plant, c'mon!"</p><p>Shaking the ringing from her ears, Ivy snorts.  "And you wouldn't make me one-- or are you <em> not </em> already planning acres, plural, for a hyena farm?"</p><p>Harley sniffles.  "Not a <em> farm </em> , a farm's a place they tell you they take poor, innocent, snarly-gnashy babies when they actually mean kerSNICK," she says, making a cutting motion across her neck.  "I mean a <em> preserve </em>."</p><p>Ivy ponders telling Harley that preserves usually tend to be in animals' native environments, and upstate New York is not <em> naturally </em> home to many hyenas.  But she has to admit, scavengers would certainly be better neighbors than the wealthy, to Ivy's way of thinking.  Instead, she simply points at Harley again.</p><p>"There," she says triumphantly.  "You wouldn't put one of your babies in a cage.  You wouldn't put me in a pot."</p><p>A smirk makes its way across Ivy's green lips.  "Not for long, anyway.  I think I can tell what sort of games you'd play with your Poison Ivy."</p><p>Harley grumbles.  "You don' hafta sound so happy about that, Red!  I know you-- definite, A-class toppy-top, even if you won't wear leather."  Again, the 'er' is completely displaced for an 'ah'.</p><p><em> That's winning, </em> Ivy thinks.  "A lot of things have changed, Harley," she insists.</p><p>"You may not be about to rule the world," she goes on, reaching across to lightly caress the spectacularly shaped and spectacularly sized bulk of Harley's bicep, the skin vibrating with just its own tautness.  "Heh.  Could crack an egg here."<br/>
Ivy sniffs.  "Besides, I'm not so down on <em> animal </em> products these days.  Plants have to eat something."  She flips her hair back into place over her shoulder.  "Anyway-- yes, I know there are bigger and badder Hunters."</p><p>"Huh-wha?"</p><p>"Hunters," Ivy says with a sigh.  "The Green says that not too long ago, that's what all your new kind were called."</p><p>"I never hearda them.  I don't think that's what Quinzel means.  Or Quinn.  Or--"</p><p>"Harley!"</p><p>"Nah, that means rabbit's lawn."</p><p>Ivy closes her eyes and plants her palm over one of them.  "Peanut, the Green doesn't mean your family."  She frowns.  "Don't play stupid with me.  The Green told me your brain has been expanded along with your bulk-- and your senses."</p><p>Harley goes back to playing with her thumbs and forefingers.  "Yeah."</p><p>"So you know there are others like you."</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"<em>Anyway</em>," Ivy says, grinding her teeth.  "I mean that I know you're only going to hold a little territory, but the Green doesn't need me as a crusader any more.  The Hunters have demolished the age of humanity, and whatever form your civilization takes, no matter how cruel, it won't be the same <em>wasteful,</em> <em>stupid</em> cruelty."</p><p>"Yeah, but--"</p><p>"And by the way, 'recently' to the Green means, 'less than a hundred thousand years ago,' Harley."</p><p>"Ohhhh."  The bright smile over Harley's pale face lights up even more than the bright red and bright blue eyeshadow.  "But still, Pammie--"</p><p>She swallows, that corded neck showing each motion in stark relief.  "Pammie, I wanna spank you until your ass is the same color as your <em> hair, </em>" she whispers.  "Then move forward an' play puppet with…"</p><p>"With this?" Ivy whispers, and spreads her thighs wide beneath the table.  "I know you can see through the table, Harley."</p><p>Ivy strokes her long, supple finger over the darker green of her fleshy, succulent labia.  She flicks and pinches at the sensitive flesh, the nerve-fibers within retooled by her own genius and the Green's.  "I'm thinking about that too, Harley," she groans, and strokes her index finger into her moist folds.  "You can smell me, can't you?"</p><p>"R-red…"</p><p>Ivy presses her middle finger in alongside her index, and her other hand comes down beside it.  She pins back her left nether lip and spreads herself further for Harley.  "I'm thinking about you fisting me, too, Harley.  Just like I did you on those lonely nights.  When you asked me to, remember?"</p><p>Harley hugs her gargantuan melons closer to her heavily muscled chest, squeezing the softness that almost makes Ivy wetter than her fantasies.  "Y-you-- you're a dom, Pammie.  I knew it even then."</p><p>"And you were a submissive, Harley," Ivy says softly, and brings her two fingers up to lick.  "Mm.  Like stevia with a hint of something earthier, I think.  I'll have to thank the Quorum of Flowers."</p><p>The Quorum replaced the Parliament of Trees.  Gaia-Geb, the massed, collective intelligence of all the embodiments of the Earth as a whole, does not permit the subordinate Kingdoms their former governments.  Instead, a quorum of their mightiest remaining members-- most of the Parliaments were taken as prizes for Gaia-Geb's own stables-- serve the merged entity and their whims with terrified fervor.</p><p>"You <em> were </em> a submissive," Ivy repeats.  "You're not now.  And for the record, lovey?"</p><p>Harley swallows at the word, but just nods.  Ivy is almost amused at how her giant, ultra-strong friend is so nervous.  <em> Just for little old me… </em></p><p>"I was always a switch," Ivy purrs, and plunges <em> three </em> fingers back into herself.  "I want you so badly, Harley Quinn!" she moans.  "You have me so wet I don't even need any clit-love!"</p><p>Harley groans, and punches herself in the noggin repeatedly.  Ivy rolls her eyes, but Harley keeps on smacking herself.  "Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts…"</p><p>Ivy should be insulted, but she knows how to roll.</p><p>"I've been a bad girl before, Harley," she purrs, fingering herself deeply, over and over.  "I've been <em> very </em> bad from time to time."  Then she sucks on her lower lip, moaning.  "Don't take my choices away, Harley.  I never thought <em> you'd </em> be one to try <em> that </em>."</p><p>"If I do what you're askin', Pammie… it won't be your choices.  Not any more."</p><p>"Won't it, Harley?" Ivy asks.  Her voice catches as the pleasure quivers up and down her body.  Her spinal cord may more than just <em> resemble </em> roots now, but the Quorum made sure that Ivy could feel pleasure extremely thoroughly-- and gave her some filters beside.</p><p>"If I catch ya, ya won't be able to--"</p><p>With Harley so big and beautiful, it doesn't take much for Poison Ivy to cum, moistening her own thighs in the process.</p><p>"Oh.. oh… <em> Harley!" </em> screams Poison Ivy, and Harley's hands slam down on her edge of the table.  She restrains them at the last moment, so they just smash off chunks, tearing through it like it as Kleenex stretched taut.</p><p>"<em> Pammie! </em>" Harley replies, but it's a growl.  "You're pushin' me!"</p><p>"I'm trying to!  Dammit, Harley, I <em> will </em> always be able to escape-- don't you see?"</p><p>Harley stares at her dumbfounded, and Ivy reaches up again.  Daringly, she brings her fingers up to the lips her giant friend-- once and future lover-- and waits.  Harley can't resist herself any more than she can Ivy's offer.</p><p>Hungers driving her, Harley greedily and possessively laps up Ivy's juices.  "That's it, Harley," Ivy says softly.  "You'll have a grip to crush the Man of Steel, over however much you can hold.  But you won't ever be able to follow me into the Green-- and I can reach the Green <em> anywhere </em> now.  You could bury me in metal, and I'd be able to leave-- <em> if </em> I felt you broke your promises."</p><p>Harley moans, kissing away the last of Ivy's aroused fluids from her fingers and cumming herself, just a little, in her half-red, half-black bikini.  "Promises?  I've… I've broken those before," she whispers, ashamed.</p><p>"You are reborn, Harley Quin, Harleen Quinzel, or however you choose to call yourself," Poison Ivy says firmly.   Then she grins, cheeks dimpling.  "Even my Peanut-- or at least a little of you can be.  You <em> will </em> keep your promises to me.  So promise me you'll treat me well; promise me you'll do no or little permanent harm, promise me you'll protect me…"</p><p>She smirks.  "Promise me you'll <em> use </em> me-- and a few other little things-- and I'll be yours, forever."</p><p>"Ain't gotta bank-- heh, sorry."  Harley cuts herself off as Ivy raises an ineffectual fist that could merely fell a skyscraper with the Green's augmentations.  "I know, I know.  Keep a balance between what I build an' the natural world.  Tend to the world that ain't human or Hunter.  Be good to th' Green."</p><p>"And the Red-- though I have to warn you, Animal Man has been drawn into the Red with his family and won't be coming back."</p><p>"Aww!  No kitty theater troupe revue?"</p><p>"You can figure something out, Harley, you know that.  You have such a mind, now.  The Green has seen it."</p><p>Before Harley can do more than open her mouth, Poison Ivy sighs and plants a palm over one eye again.  "No, we are not growing roots or vines in your brain, seriously, Harley!"  She pauses.  "I'm pretty sure it wouldn't even work.  Not as you are now-- invulnerable save to your own, or the death of worlds."</p><p>Harley sighs and fiddles with her fingers, wiggling her toes around.  Her eyes flick from side to side, and her smile looks more like an abashed grimace.  Finally, she sighs.</p><p>"I… I'll think about it."</p><p>Ivy does her best not to cheer.  Harley sighs again, huge chest heaving.  It's not the only show that abruptly follows; reaching up to rub the back of her hair makes Harley's sculpted tricep bulge and swell out.</p><p>
  <em> I think one tricep that has more muscular definition than my whole body… including the grooves of bark.  And boy oh boy does Harley make that look scrumptious! </em>
</p><p>Ivy presses her advantage.  She tilts the top of her head to the left, chin to the right, and nods at Harley's upraised and out-flexing arm, immense and rippling from just a simple motion.  She gives Harley something she never gave all those billionaires and crime lords and seducees of all variety.</p><p>Her heart.  When Poison Ivy licks her tongue around her lips now, it's not because she's imagining stealing wealth Harley doesn't have, or using Harley for some now-pointless crusade against the defeated industries of Man.  This isn't Man's world any more.</p><p>This world belongs to women, to <em> Hunters </em> like Harley, and more importantly, Ivy's heart belongs to Harley even more than it ever has.  When she strokes her tongue firmly from one edge of her lips now, she's imagining making love to Harley, and it makes her pussy drool like a male under one of her best pheromone sprays.  She imagines Harley's hand both heavy and gentle on her newly empowered body, and her lips, possessive and loving, all over herself.</p><p>Harley's new mental powers do increase her stubbornness, and her ability to fool herself.  So Ivy begins to squirm in her seat, waving in slow, sinuous motions like a young willow bending this way and that under an ever-changing wind.  "You've changed," Ivy agrees, "But not so far that I can't love you, Harley Quinn."<br/>
Tears fall from Harley's eyes.  The hulking woman leans over and kisses Ivy fiercely, her nips and flushed face still showing her obvious arousal at Ivy's offers (autoerotic and intimate alike).  Both women shudder, holding the kiss close for what seems like forever.</p><p>It's really only a minute or so.</p><p>Eventually, Harley breaks the kiss.  She is, after all, a Hunter, and is in charge by the right of her forceful arms, and legs, and back, and shoulders… it goes on and on.  She looks away slightly.</p><p>"I said I'd think about it, Red," she warns, and Ivy nods slowly.</p><p>Then Harley sighs, flopping her head and hands down on the damaged table.  Well, her hands, anyway; her breasts are simply too big and too perky to squish down far enough for Harley's head to reach the table.   She pouts a bit.</p><p>Ivy folds her hands beneath the table, into her lap, and waits.  Eventually, Harley bounces back up-- quite literally in the case of her still goosebumped boobs-- and changes the subject, as much she is wont.  ""So, uh, Red… how come ya ain't asked about Mistah J?"</p><p><em> Moment of truth, moment of danger, here we come. </em>  Ivy's instinct is to lie, to keep it secret.  Harley might get angry at her voyeurism, after all-- and Harley's newly empowered wrath is something terrible to see.</p><p>Poison Ivy has seen it.</p><p>But she knows that Harley will see-- and smell, and hear-- through any lie.  Moreover, if Ivy hopes to have a warm, loving relationship, unbalanced or not, she <em> can't </em> build it on deception.  Not if she hopes to sink deep roots.</p><p>"Oh, Harley," she sighs, reaching over to pat the bigger woman's hands.  "I was watching you the whole time."</p><p>Harley's jaw drops.</p><p>"That was the deciding reason, you know.  Why I chose to come back to you."</p><p>"You mean…?"</p><p>"Because you decided to take charge, Harley.  Because you freed yourself.  I know you may put me in all sorts of tight and exciting confinement…"</p><p>Ivy smiles broadly, and traces sinuous sensuousness over the ridges and prominences of Harley's powerful arms.  "But," she breathes, lips full and pouty, "But I know you'll always let me out to see the sun.  I love you, Harley Quinn."</p><p>"And I'm so glad you're free.  Free to take me-- if you choose."</p><p>The young man arrives with their food.</p><p>Or rather-- Harley's food takes up about three-quarters of the table.  Hot dogs, eggs with suggestively shaped pancakes, chicken breast sandwich-- if there's some innuendo to be had, Harley's about to eat it.</p><p>Poison Ivy, somewhat unenthusiastically, has key lime pie.  Even an ecoterrorist has her weaknesses.  <em> It's not like fallen trees don't become fertilizer, </em> she reminds herself. <em> If the Green doesn't mind, neither will I. </em></p><p>In moments, Harley takes refuge in a story.</p><p>Ivy has the patience of a tree, her roots sunk deep into fertile soil.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Pulse has come and gone, for ten minutes.  And while matters change quickly in the changed Earth, usually, ten minutes is in that weird in-the-middle where if you're safe, you're probably safe, and if you're not, you're dead.  Or raped.</p><p>Or both.</p><p>The Joker, on the other hand, has spent the last ten minutes making fun of Harley Quinn.  A Hunter.  Not a weak one, either, if not particularly strong.</p><p>She has sat through it all.</p><p>He is laughing at her.  The jokes are at her expense.  And she is realizing, with her newly eidetic memory, and her newly expanded mind...</p><p>He has always been laughing at her.</p><p>The only reason that the Joker isn't dead, or raped, or both...</p><p>Is that the strength of a Hunter's word is if anything stronger than the strength of her thighs.</p><p>Harley Quinn has thighs that are bigger around and more heavily muscled than Joker's torso.</p><p>And she promised.  "What Mistah J wants, Mistah J gets."</p><p>That's alright, though.  The Joker has never been as careful-- much less as clever-- with words as he thinks he is.</p><p>It won't take much.</p><p>It doesn't.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ten Minutes, Twenty-Three Seconds After the Pulse</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Harley-girl, you'll always be my Pooh!  Just a really </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> poo!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laughter starts again.  So does the tic on her cheek.  Synchronized, even.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not like Harley Quinn doesn't know that Mistah J can laugh and laugh and laugh.  She does-- it's part of his roguish charm, after all.  Sometimes, she just wishes he was a little more appropriate with his timing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You'd think a comedian would have better timing.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She feels her fists start to curl, knuckles cracking.  But he's already made the joke about gorillas going cracked twice, and she doesn't want to hear it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lilt of her voice seems to be fairly effective, anyway.  "Puddin'," Harley says, making as sweet a smile as she possibly could.  "Do ya </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> hafta keep makin' the fat jokes?  I thought ya said repetition staled the show!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It draws his attention to her words, and there's this look in his eyes...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, it even works.  The level of sweetness she can manage now is a lot heavier-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now he's got me doing it!-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>than even just six minutes ago.  Her voice is deeper, truer, and she's got a pair of pipes like </span>
  <em>
    <span>gold</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The problem is the body that came with the pipes and the pipe-rack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The body, and the booty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squirms a bit, pale flesh wobbling on and on-- but only up top.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, yeah, my behind is kinda going along too, but you'd think he'd notice the rest don't got any fat at all.  Maybe doesn't get past the fact that my boobs are bigger than his head… and mine… put together?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Wiping tears from around his eyes, the gaunt, tall.. ish.. man of Harley's usual dreams stills to a few short chortles.  "Right you are, Harls, right... you... are."  He snaps his fingers, points at her, and gives her that amazing, bright smile of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That big, rictus grin that seems so much faker than it did in her memory when she came running down to protect her man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She beams back at him, reflexively tightening up her expansive chest.  "Thank you, Mistah J.  Ah-and hey, it's gonna make bustin' out of here pretty easy, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hates the tremble in her voice, though it keeps the bust in question wobbling on.  Even her Puddin' and his... idiosyncratic… sexuality is entranced for a few moments when all the extra Harley Knockersness bounces for him.  She just wishes she'd had the time to do her rack up half black and half white, but her eyeshadow alone will have to do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing as she can't really fit in her old outfit any more.  Her choice was naked or steal clothes from Killer Croc, so naked she is.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Some reptiles have got no sense a' style, let alone sense a' humah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that she cares whether or not Waylon gets pissed any more.  She may not be </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> taller than tall, dark, and toothsome… but she is, and she's much bigger.  In all sorts of ways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what a </span>
  <em>
    <span>spec-tac-yular</span>
  </em>
  <span> bust it shall be, Harley!"  Another knee-slapping, at his own… joke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her head abruptly feels like her pigtails are trying to pull her scalp in different directions.  "Heh, heh," she says, smiling weakly behind her alternating black and white.  "Just like ya say, Mistah J!"  Feeling like she should show willing, she hefts the rack in question</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment of leering-- and her Puddin' does have quite the leer-- he beams right back at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or rather, she wants to be able to believe it's a smile.  She can see things so clearly now she could just cry.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, it's a smirk, and that leer is bullshit given those fucking jokes</span>
  </em>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley tries to keep the new, grumpier voice in the back of her head stuffed beneath the others as she waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's... funny... but the more I think about it, he didn't apologize for the fat jokes, and I'm not sure he ever really has apologized before.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers twitch, faster than he can follow.  She makes sure they don't form fists by planting them on her thighs.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Still can't get over how much I got </span>
  </em>
  <span>ripped</span>
  <em>
    <span> in that light show dealie!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I'm not even tha beefiest gal in Gotham!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of, the wait, it seems, is over.  Her Puddin' adjusts his tie and chortles a bit.  She managed to find proper clothes for him, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'll excu-u-use me," he says, drawing a handkerchief across his eyes, making squeaky noises as he dabs away his tears.  She blinks a bit, and tilts her head, red pigtail brushing over the smooth-ish hump of muscle trailing down from her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Joker is taken aback for a moment.  Now, he wipes sweat from his brow as he chatters on.  "Of course, Harls-- you always do-- for being swept away by the, ah, excessive nature of your new prodigious… heh… eh…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He considers for a moment.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Talents</span>
  </em>
  <span>."  There's that grin again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That smirk.  But she's already fuming so much her big toes are thumping against the floor beneath her big, bobbly butt.  At least that's really mostly a proportional upgrade, only a little inflation.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>… I always do excuse you, don't I?  Have you ever actually apologized to me?  Truly, actually, seriously apologized?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Rage reminds her that she's broken with him in the past.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And not when I was about to put you in the dirt before…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The thought makes her queasy.  He'd pushed her out those times…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she always comes back.  So Harley squelches the thought.  She promised him she'd be his moll, she'd take care of 'everything' as long as he took her in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What was it I said the last time I took him back?  "What Mistah J wants, Mistah J </span>
  </em>
  <span>gets?</span>
  <em>
    <span>"  That… wasn't bright.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels a scream coming up from down those big, golden pipes, and snuffs it quick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're still the greatest Bra'd," Mistah J chortles, "Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>un</span>
  </em>
  <span>bra'd as the case seems to be!-- a guy could have, Harls, I promise you."  A few quick motions of her Puddin's fingers, and the stylized curl is back in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Hungry Hungry Harley that came with the lightshow and the apparently just </span>
  <em>
    <span>hilarious</span>
  </em>
  <span> new physique growls so loud internally that she slaps a palm on her new tum.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ouch!  I'm harda than rock!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So are her nipples, now that he's back to the stylin' psychopath she first fell in love with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, and the foot-long in his pants.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weren't that a surprise sammich for Momma Harls?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's certainly showing now, throbbing against the otherwise loose pants she found for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That's weird; usually, it's one of the most controlled parts of him-- unless he wants an inappropriate erection joke.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She's finding him attractive again, remembering why she found him so funny, so charismatic that she gave up her career just to help him laugh.  The devilish smile, the wicked twinkle in his eyes… It wows her, all right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, he holds his hands at their maximum extension, fingers flicking towards each other like he was juggling cards.  "Certainly the </span>
  <em>
    <span>grandest</span>
  </em>
  <span> bra'd there ever was!"  He slaps his thighs, laughing and hooting, still occasionally making the fingers gesture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While she just stares, forcing the smile to stay ear to ear, more teeth in it all the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Parts of her, the wet and stiff parts, wish that was her those fingers were going over.  An icy chill in the back of her remembers what the last time he managed was like-- and has more mixed feelings.  If nothing else, Mistah J does have quite the long tongue on him!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And some parts of her think that he could-- and should be taught better how to use it.  Having a sense of humor does not always mean making fish and knock-knock jokes while eating your partner out.  Nor does it include attempted ventriloquism.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Usually.  I mean, that one time when he made my clit sing both ways…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  There's a lot about Mistah J that was great-- one time.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only it usually happens again, and again, and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much like his constant breakdowns into laughter her current, possibly permanent predicament.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Apotheosis.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The word whispers itself through her, curling down from her ears, along the bulge of her traps towards the rippling of her lats, and further points south.  Her thighs nudge slightly further apart, but as they do, the tightness shifts from the long, tube-y bits to a web of muscles that anchor near her groin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Readying the ones that shut them tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not like Harley hasn't been big before.  She has.  Or ripped-- she's actually had some pretty tight muscle action going on for a few years now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being the Joker's moll and best girl has meant she's been exposed to all sorts of random chemicals.  Being Red's best friend-- that's Poison Ivy, to most-- has meant she's been exposed to all sorts of random </span>
  <em>
    <span>biochemicals</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.  And some not so random.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Venom, Titan, and whatever it was that Red put in her to keep her safe from poison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yep, super steroids, regular steroids, seething gasses, Farmer Brown's growth hormones...  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And thank you, Puddin', for bringing those up four times in a row!</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>You name it, it's probably been doused in her drink, or her tub, or she's been tossed into a vat of it, or had it sprayed in her face by a variety of floral creations (some of whom were Red's fault, but at least Red had the grace to be embarrassed about Ms. Wigglesome Petals the Third's little fit).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And let her name the plant, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Mistah J laughs on, she does feel a bit better.  Not because she's feeling the laughs herself.  Instead, she feels like he's pouring water out for her to drink-- and splashing it in her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks, brightening up.</span>
  <em>
    <span>  Red gave me that swill and it hurt and it took care a' me, so… that's kinda like this, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because her new body comes with some definite drawbacks, and not just being the butt-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>at least I'm used to him havin' things ta say about my heiny--</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her sweet Puddin's jokes.  Since the moment that pulsing lightshow woke her up (and oh, how it woke her!), she's been aware she's got a clock ticking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three of them, desperately gnawing at the base of her spine, at the back of her skull, and throbbing at her clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I don't need any biological clock jokes from Puddin', but how else do I make sure I don't go down </span>
  </em>
  <span>that</span>
  <em>
    <span> way?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sex-- well, Mistah J's on and off on that, given how funny he thinks people look when they're about to climax, but she's uncomfortably aware that if she really leaned on him, she could get him to be accomodating in that regard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inflicting pain and cruelty shouldn't be a problem, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so long as he gets his bony ass in gear!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  That's one of the things Harley's most worried about.  While she's pretty sure he'll find the same humor in the conflicting drives she did when she woke up with a brand new sparklin' oversized noggin, she also suspects that he'd find a lot of laughs in making her wait while they got worse and worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because for all her man would probably see her going even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> crazy a good thing, Harley is well aware of how bad she could get in this new, improved bod of hers.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And it is improved.  Even Mistah J occasionally sees some uses in a super-strong henchgal…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, at last, there's suffering herself.  She felt it fed the moment his face changed from alarm at her entrance (walking through the wall like it was the top of a stripper cake) to a sneer when he recognized her usual, "Hiya, Mistah J!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley had always found her man's laughter healing.  Well, usually.  Just not like this.  And not tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least Mistah J is actually feedin' me instead of himself, for a change, right?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She knows better than to thank him for it.  She doesn't particularly want to be told to go on a diet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes dabbing away his tears and chuckles to himself a bit.  "Well, can't have the best gal of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Joker</span>
  </em>
  <span> all so </span>
  <em>
    <span>dishabille!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Wouldn't do at all, no…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's almost pleased.  Then he folds his used handkerchief into an imitation of his own cravat… and stuffs it into her cleavage, right against the breastbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not the sort of wet I was hopin' to get, thanks, Puddin'.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>It takes a lot of willpower not to just give up on the whole thing as a bad joke then and there.  And she can't help but twitch her left eye and cheek when he slaps his thigh (again).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There we go!" he hoots.  "A touch of class, amidst the crass which encompass-es!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling-- sneering-- at her wince, the Joker slaps her on the back.  "Oh, don't worry so much, Pumpkin Pie!  It looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>on you!"  He makes an absent-minded gesture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Adds a touch of less is more to your moreness," he says, taking a sly look over the fat succulence of her enormous melons, far more than just where he tucked the handkerchief.  "Well, more or less."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's pigtails itch and her fingers tremble, invisible to all save her.  It's not the first time, with Puddin'.  It's not the first time even tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So much for science, or nerves…. I can see the damn things ain't goin' past my scalp, but itch the hair damn well does!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Clad completely, at last-- he made Harley turn around for that, and she didn't bother telling him that she could see behind her-- the Joker dusts off his gloves and stands.  "Oh, my, Harley but how opportunity does knock all over your… heh.  Heh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her perspective speeds up, and he slows.  She's torturing herself now, elongating the last "eh."  Knowing, as she does, that what comes up next bubbling up out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like a shepherd dog, unable to stop barking at the mailiman.  Or one of her beautiful hyena babies, rolling over on their sides.  The laugh comes, and there's nothing she can do about it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least, nothing she will do about it yet.  "AhahahAHAha!" he chortles, back to the thigh-slapping and tears.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>KNOCKERS!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.  He's started the tit jokes instead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"We could really </span>
  <em>
    <span>knock 'em dead </span>
  </em>
  <span>with your new </span>
  <em>
    <span>talents</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley-girl!  Why, the first thing I'll do to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try them out</span>
  </em>
  <span> is </span>
  <em>
    <span>knock</span>
  </em>
  <span> over a bank!"  The Joker inhales briefly, stopping the laughter… and then, exactly like he has for the ten minutes while other girls like her get to have all the fun…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps going.  "We could </span>
  <em>
    <span>bust</span>
  </em>
  <span> the whole banking system!"  He nudges her-- in the boob-- with an elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course, with you by my side, we'll have to worry about going bust, so perhaps you shouldn't handle the money side of affairs, eh?  Eh?"  Jiggle, jiggle, her breasts bounce in time with his interrogatives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least that feels kinda nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why did I think he was funny again?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Even the thought makes Harley Quinn squirm again, her broad, round hips rolling like they can't get comfortable, it comes to mind again and again.  While she's thinking of grand pranks to play on national monuments, and collections of super-tights to pants, he's just recycling the same material over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While her "Puddin'" has been finding fifty not-so-different ways of calling her fat or calling attention to the fact that her tits nearly weigh as much as he does, she's been figuring out ways to make Acme's painted holes a reality.  While she's been teaching herself every language in the world based on half-remembered snatches, he's been impressing himself with his synonym count for tits.  And all along…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's been laughing.  At her.  She can't seem to say anything that will make him stop.  Not for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, he's always been laughing at me…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She shakes her head so fast that it only looks like the tips move, rather than the full dance in front of and behind her.  Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought is dangerous to her promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every time she has to remind herself of that, the urge seems to reach out and shake her Puddin' warmly by the throat gets stronger, and stronger.  Just like her.  She wouldn't even need more than the one hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rubs the back of her head between the base of her pigtails.  Huge bulges flow down and up along her arm, and she thinks they look sweet.  She can already think of awesome temporary tattoos to put on them to make them spell things, or dance, or just to make a really </span>
  <em>
    <span>living</span>
  </em>
  <span> harlequin troupe in body art.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mistah J just looks at them with a combination of contempt, mockery, and ill-disguised fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be honest, Harley Quinn actually likes her new body for a change.  It hasn't made her drooling in the head like Titan, and it doesn't feel like it's going to leave her in the lurch like Venom.  Sure, she was used to being an acrobat and lithe, but just the way her new muscles pull and shift when she moves, she can tell she hasn't lost a whit of agility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To the contrary, she's gained so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's seven foot seven.  Fourteen inches taller than her Handsome Prince of Puckishness, and with shoulders that would make Bane look as thin as a rail-- as thin and spindly as her Mistah J, come to think of it.  Her Puddin' isn't even big enough to fit across one of Harley's legs, not at the waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with his arms by his sides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything better.  She's actually had her hair improved!  While her pale skin remains the same, her hair has gone and self-dyed itself, the tips bright red on the right, bright blue on the left.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This new sensa' stuff is so cool!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She can even see them as though she was looking at them from the inside.  Heck, she can see straight down and in to the molecules; it looks like she's never going to have to carefully mask and spray ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can see the Joker's pale cock, pulsing against his boxers.  She pushes her tongue out over her lips, but leaves the smile on her face and her pupils locked on his.  He doesn't have to know she can see the meat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have to know how much her fingers are trying to reach out and touch him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Take</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She focuses on her hair again.  The look isn't the same as before; last time they let her have dyes, she'd dyed it to match her cap, one red, one black.  She hasn't been that way in a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever since the </span>
  <em>
    <span>incident</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the plant dyes and Red, they don't let her have any chemicals in Arkham.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I look more like how I wanted to be, before,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks, trying to ignore the ongoing laughter.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe that's why Puddin' is so mean t'night?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She knows better.  And she likes her hair this way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's huge, and she's ripped; she looks like she could rip the batness (and the armor) right off the Batmobile with one finger.  Flex an arm, and the ol' flyin' mouse should run screaming back to his little hidey-hole.  Maybe get the Cat to lick him better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her big, beautiful ass has always been a prize piece, and she's had some good reasons to get comfortable with her hooters.  The ones he's hooting over now, though, are pure dee-lish, if she does say so herself.  So smoothly curved, so fat and yet so shapely in form, with dark pink nipples that are almost red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, they are red, a rosey red, as are her plate-sized areolae.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, I thought my tits were what british guys called cans, huh!  But now my nips are can-sized </span>
  </em>
  <span>on</span>
  <em>
    <span> my cans!  … Ugh.  That was Mistah J level.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She should be having fun.  With her man.  With the city at her knees-- in many cases literally!</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nah, literally is just below the shoulders.  Feh.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She gives the Joker a hesitant, hopeful smile as </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> laughing jag begins to slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>C'mon, even Puddin' can usually be counted on to make an escape from Arkham!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How long can this take?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's still laughing.  Harley's gotten in touch with her inner amazon, she's come up with a couple of jokes ("Themiscyra?  I 'ardly knew ya!"), and she even has a prime piece of real estate in the greater New York State area she'd like to take… for herself and Puddin', really… and he's still on the damn size jokes.  And the boob jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Knocker-knock."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>… really?  Another one?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  But she smiles, big and broad and sparkling.  "Who's there?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Boob!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, for the lovah…  Why am I steppin' on this rake </span>
  </em>
  <span>again? she wonders, the edges of her smile quivering slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, right.  A promise to be his best moll until deaths do us part, to be the punch to his line, and to make sure his jokes are properly appreciated.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Out loud, Harley suppresses another twitch and asks, "Boob-who?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the Joker, the Jackass Jackanape, does it.  He makes a stupid mistake.  When he says it, she realizes she's been waiting for it since the very first laugh, since the very first sneer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since the moment she saw his face and realized that he was afraid… and contemptuous.  Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Harley, dear, you don't have to be so sad!  I'm sure you could lose even </span>
  <em>
    <span>two hundred</span>
  </em>
  <span> pounds in no time </span>
  <em>
    <span>flat!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a coincidence.  You're just about two hundred pounds, Mistah J.  And you know, you love a good punchline as long as it's yours.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She realizes just how easy it would be to push the Joker's buttons.  All of their past conversations burn in her mind, and her huge left delt flexes a bit.  The oblique below bulges as well, trembling lightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No.  Not going to break the </span>
  </em>
  <span>word</span>
  <em>
    <span> directly.  Just wait for the plan to work.  I don't just know him now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>understand</span>
  <em>
    <span> him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And with that understanding comes contempt.  Contempt and the keys to rid herself of, yes, indeed, two hundred pounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aw, Puddin', are you sure?" Harley asks, fluttering her eyelashes.  She clasps her big fists together under her chin, squooshing her oversized breasts around with her elbows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley takes a moment to put a lot of extra wriggle in her super-padded hips, clenching her glutes together and releasing them in swift succession.  With an extra cute lilt, she asks, "Do you think I should do that to you?  You did say I was gonna be able to do so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>for your plans!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Actually, you said I'd be a "big" help, and I would feature "bigly" in your "biggest" plans, and that you were really thinking "big" for me, because repeating the same word over and over again with emphasis is clever wordplay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But words matter.  The spirit does too, but she's prepared to push her revulsion a bit.  After all, that promise was before… and the Joker has broken his side of it so often.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not really paying much attention to Harley's specific words right now anyway.  Those big nipples seem to be about the only thing he doesn't find intimidating about her, oddly enough.  Every time they jostle upwards-- like right now-- he reaches out in little jerks, almost grabbing them, but moving himself back at the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's much more he is afraid of.  But he's not nearly afraid enough.  Especially now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she knew he would, the Joker bursts out laughing, slamming against her, pounding his fists onto the (currently) soft expanses of her breasts.  It even feels really nice.  Makes her smile down tolerantly at him, even gets her juices jumpin'.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not tolerant enough, nor juicy enough to change Harley's mind.  He can't hurt her, of course; but the more he flails and laughs and squirms around, the more her funbags share the fun with her, little curling jolts of sensation.  Her pale skin blushes around the cheeks and she lets out a satisfied moan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes impatiently, coughing out of his laughter.  "Oh, don't worry about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley-girl!"  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I won't.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm right behind your behind all the way!" he chortles, and her eyes widen a bit.  She can't hold it back, that predatory stare, especially as he goes on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean, as things are, you'll be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>load </span>
  </em>
  <span>off my mind..." he trails off.  Then, in the under-the-breath tone she usually forces herself to ignore, he adds, "Seriously, fuck me, you'd kill me if you sat on my face like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The glare, the screwed up expression of disgust-- it doesn't even feed her hunger for pain any more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he just made sure he doesn't matter anymore.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>WARNING: Brutal elements!</p><p>The Joker has haunted Gotham and the world for quite some time.  He's even taken over reality once... or was it twice?  But now, this is no longer the world of Man.</p><p>This is the changed Earth, and it belongs to Hunters.  Hunters like his ever-faithful moll, Harley Quinn.  And, because he's the Joker, he's just spent the last thirty minutes mocking her.</p><p>Making her hate him.  Making her realize how nasty he's always been to her.  And then...</p><p>He set her free.</p><p>That's okay. </p><p>She'll moll him good anyway.</p><p>Just for old times' sake.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Half an hour.  <em> Half a fucking hour! </em>   Harley Quinn always been a bit cuckoo, even before the Joker got his filthy, pathetic hands on her brain-- before the chemicals, before the change, there was always <em> something. </em></p><p>But the Pulse granted her more than just a fantastic bod-- it increased her senses, her speed, all sorts of things… and especially her brain.</p><p>She now understands the Joker.  The patterns he pretends not to have.  The jokes repeated one too many times.</p><p>His inability to shut up on what he <em> thinks </em> is a perfect straight line.</p><p>It took her twenty-nine words to get him to say it.  To make another sneering, sarcastic, <em> stupid </em> remark.  The remark she wanted.</p><p>Part of her feels disgusted at breaking the spirit of her word, and she knows it will be another slimey swipe of his hand across her soul, following her even afterwards.  But it will the <em> last </em> impudence of her asshole soon-to-be ex.  After all, he's the one who said, "Seriously, fuck me, you'd kill me if you sat on my face like that."</p><p>
  <em> I'll need to make sure he doesn't have time to say anything else. </em>
</p><p>"Sure thing, Mistah J!"</p><p>That part of her still feels pretty bad about it nonetheless.  The same part of her that hated every drag, every sneer, and was horrified by him putting his tears-and-snot stained handkerchief in her cleavage.  That roared for his punishment when he failed to get on his hands and knees and worship her feet in faint hope of proving himself worthy of her vajay.</p><p>That part of Harley, for some reason, really feels nauseous about the final leap.</p><p>
  <em> Yes, well, just listening to him is leaving a foul taste in my mouth anyway. </em>
</p><p>Before the buffoon can do much more than seal his fate further, asking, "Come again?" she leaps on him.</p><p>
  <em> I'd have had to cum first, Mistah Jerk! </em>
</p><p>The air buffets him; she doesn't bother spinning through it the way her instincts tell her to do so.  The air buffets and the sudden BOOM pops his eardrums.  <em> He doesn't need those any more. </em></p><p>The burst of heat around her tits sets the soft, padded walls and floor around her on fire.  Harley doesn't care.  The fire can't hurt her anymore, and she's the only one who matters.</p><p>Stunned, and slow, so <em> very </em> , very slow, the Joker hardly has time to react to the assault before she's clotheslined him.  She had to duck a <em> lot </em> to get down to the level of his stomach, but when her stone-hard arm smacks across it, it knocks the wind right out of the jackass.  She doesn't bother to arrest his pratfall, knowing it'll knock him unconscious-- and by the time he wakes, he won't be in a position to make intelligible sounds.</p><p>Her hips wiggle and wriggle and bounce, the lewdly-fat curves itching to play their role.  She spares less than a second to it, but she whirls her left foot about and prances on over to where he fell.  It's just a petit jeté, nearly a single step, and her bubbly-bobby behind dances all the way.</p><p>She's always had a teardrop tush.  This is the last time anything like a tear of hers will fall for the Joker.  She even clenches up her glutes on the way down to make sure the shape's retained until she hits it down hard on his chest.</p><p>His ribs crack.  Snap, snap, crackle.  <em> Pop! </em> she thinks, and smirks.</p><p>It's the work of miniseconds, microseconds, whateverseconds to bounce up from leaving a near-print of her rump on his chest.  From there, she slams herself forward onto his face.  Going straight to her knees, she takes a moment to kiss the lightly vibrating skin atop her right bicep.  </p><p>Then, sticking out her tongue and rolling her eyes back into her head, Harley squeals.  Her pussy begins to turn on the waterworks, leaving femmejuices to roll down her thighs and drip onto his neck, marking him as hers.  The way it always should have been.</p><p>Then she smooches her bicep one more time, reaches in between her ruggedly massive thighs-- and grabs him by his <em> ugly freaking mop of a haircut </em>.  Fury in full, she yanks him straight up between the huge, tight striations-- the bars of his final cage.  That big ol' nose of his, the one he's been looking down at her, up at her, this whole time?</p><p>"A little to tha left… a little up…" Harley groans to herself.  It's her fingers in control of his head, his body, and she doesn't really want him comprehending her words yet.</p><p>
  <em> Yet. </em>
</p><p>Harley uses him roughly against her pussy, treating grunted protests or wordless cries of pain as incitements to fuck his face harder.  It's not simply that the gnawing Hungers ebb, staving off true insanity and accentuating their pleasure.  There's so much she wants to feel, and try…</p><p><em> So much you'd never give me, </em> Puddin', <em> not never.  You used me, relied on me, and left me.  You gave scraps, and I took what you gave. </em></p><p>She's taking what she wants, now.</p><p>And oh, my, his nose feels pretty nice against her clit, actually!  Even if her clit's so stiff it breaks the bridge pretty instantly-- enough of the cartilage remains to be of use.  <em> Always wanted to try his nose, </em> gently, <em> but he was always such a chicken! </em></p><p>
  <em> Of course, that was before I got a one-way ticket ta beef town, an' gentleness seems like something that should be a gift, instead. </em>
</p><p>"There!" she whimpers, shuddering into her first orgasm in <em> months </em> barring the pulsy-energy thing.  She wasn't willing to jill off for the camera in her cell.  Then those big bands tighten up.  </p><p>The interconnected fibers haul hard on each other, tightening the grooved flesh.  Her "bad girl" muscles-- the big tubey things from before-- are bulging too; she has to restrain herself or when she slams her thighs together, she'll just powder his head.  Even if she's careful, she could still end things prematurely.</p><p>
  <em> Callin' 'em bad girl muscles just 'cause they open the thighs-- that's so lazy.  After all, it's bringin' them in tight that gets me what I want.  And I am gettin' what I want now, yes I am. </em>
</p><p>She tousles her fingers through that ugly mop of his, then grinds her fingers in real tight-- but not too tight, yet.  She groans with pleasure as the pain makes him scream himself into wakefulness.  She's got his hair nearly out by the roots, but she makes sure not to let her now impervious knuckles hit his head.</p><p>Wouldn't want to crack his skull too early, would she?  But she also doesn't want him <em> too </em> awake.  The thought tickles the undulating muscles along her inner thighs, spreading them once again.</p><p>The Joker takes a breath, desperate and ragged, as though it was his last.</p><p>A careful slam of her oversized thighs sends him down into a daze.  Compared to what she could do, it's more of a gentle caress.  The sound and feel of his bones nearing fractures gets her pussy sopping all over his face almost as much as the grind of his face against her soft lower lips.</p><p>They're the only softness he gets right now.</p><p>She masturbates him against her clit, dragging his broken nose against it a few more times before using her hard, fleshy nub to drag a line of pain across his forehead.  "Aw <em> yeah, </em> " she croons.  Her arms, taut under pale skin, flex not from his all but nonexistent weight, but with just the joy of power.  "Been missin' <em> this! </em>"</p><p>The thought makes her smirk a bit.  "Well, missing somethin' <em> like </em>this."  Shoving his face forward frees his mouth a little, but even if he had enough sense in him to try to speak, her bod is big enough that said mouth is still trapped between the dampness of her pale pussy lips.</p><p>Her <em> clenching </em> , pale pussy lips.  And while the puffy, aroused labia <em> should </em> be fleshy and soft, she finds to her laughing delight that as her folds tighten up, she can will them to be hard, battering his face.  "Fuck, Mistah J!" she coos.  "Even your <em> face </em> is as weak as your jokes!"</p><p>She alternates giggles with high pitched, "Ahhh!" noises while her hand bounces him up and down against her slit, smearing her arousal all over his ruined smile.  "That-- uhnf!"</p><p>Closing her eyes, Harley squeezes her giant asscheeks together.  "That was just a <em> warmup </em>, Puddin' Punk."   Her high pitched snarl isn't too unlike her furry babies, her adorable hyenas.</p><p>The perky globes of her butt squish and the glutes beneath tighten, keeping her rough thighs just barely clenched enough on the Joker's head as she starts to lift up her hips.  Their broad, shapely strength takes her into position, quivering, while her legs cinch tighter.  She's straight up from her knees, but to her mild surprise, she's able to hold the Joker's head almost to her slit without any further damage.</p><p><em> Got control with the power.  Sweet! </em>  Her smile beams wider and brighter than it ever has, and she lets out another moan.</p><p>Ignoring her captive "boss," Harley brings her hands up to feel the bottom of her oversized rack.  Giggling, she bounces it up and down while making "boing boing" noises, letting her nipples stiffen as far as her clit.  "Dayam," she breathes.  "Sensitive l'il guys, aren'tcha?"</p><p>The fluorescent lighting makes her smile positively demonic-- no facepaint needed.  "Well, momma's got some new toys to play with!"  Laughing, she uses the same dexterity through her fingertips that allows her to keep the Joker captive and yet agonizingly viced against her vulva.  </p><p>A surprising amount of those new toys come in under <em> accuracy </em>.  In this case, how to most accurately and extensively pleasure herself.  She sees through her breasts-- and several floors beneath down to below the foundations-- but she can narrow in nice and close.</p><p>Even though it's been years since her last anatomy classes, let alone her neuroanatomy, she knows each of these newly expanded extended nerves.  Her fingers don't just treat her big girls in the front well, she finds; they can make ripples through the soft yet sturdy flesh, making it feel like her boobs were bathing in… <em> Dunno.  Liquid chocolate with extra espresso? </em></p><p>There's just so many new sensations that she never even gets to the pink discs of her areola before her pussy registers a feeling of more <em> purpose </em> to the helpless, hapless struggles between her thighs.  He's not moving much, other than instinctive reactions to each new drop of pussyjuice on his face, but there's a little bit of mumbling.  It's so pathetic it rips another purr from her throat.</p><p>"Aww, feelin' a bit <em> muffled </em> , Puddin' for my pie?  She spreads her legs long enough to let him hear-- and fall, bouncing the back of his skull off of stone-hard ridges of muscle.  That <em> definitely </em> wakes him up.</p><p>Even so, he's in too much pain, and at last, fear, to respond before she reaches around behind herself to grab his torso with one hand, the other snatching his hair up again.  "Let me help you with that," she giggles, and grinds his face back into her wetness-- right back on the money, too.</p><p>The lights around her blink and flicker, but she hardly notices at all.  Her left eyelids begin to vibrate as the pleasure starts to reach a fever pitch.  "Oooh," she moans, then bites her lip.  "Well?"</p><p>The only answer is outraged and agonized babble.  Unlike the Bat, it seems Harley can get through his little mental armor of laughter.  <em> Of course, ol' Batsy never broke Mistah Jerk's face with his twat. </em></p><p>The thought makes her giggle, toes slamming against the shredded floor padding…</p><p>No, wait, that's the sensation of feeling the Joker's lips and jaw work their broken best as he tries to order her.  Unwilling to tolerate his demands anymore, even when they're pussy-pleasing, she squeezes her long, strong legs just a bit more fiercely, bulging her newly improved quads out.  She can feel the individual muscle heads respond, even on the small, thin ones.</p><p>Experimentally, she screws up her pleasure-blushed cheeks and grunts, "<em> Yeah! </em> "  <em> Smoosh </em> goes his face into her pussy again-- hands free!  Her rear cheeks wriggle with the motion as well, bopping up and down while her knees dance in and out.</p><p>In all honesty, Harley is absurdly careful with the Joker.  Intricate muscle control allows her to use the top muscle heads along her inner thigh alone.  Their flexing and relaxing bounces him up and down in her soaked crotch-- almost as though he was actively participating.</p><p><em> I'm used ta doing all the work anyway. </em>  That his blood is getting everywhere, she ignores; that his arms flail, actively bruising his own hands against the roughness of her muscles, she exults.  But not so much as in the blessed silence and an end to fat jokes.  </p><p>"Pussy got your tongue?  Well-- not yet, and that's really a <em> big </em> disappointment, knowwhaddImean?"</p><p>Harley claws across his chest lightly, deliberately stripping off the top layer of skin with her nails and leaving glowing-red pain in its place.  She rocks forward, starting to fracture his forehead, just a little, on the hardness of her clit.  Better control of her own hardness would allow her to prolong the fun and the agony both.</p><p>But she just can't be bothered.</p><p>Each slap of her quads against his skull impacts his face a bit harder against her slit.  Each time his face grinds over that wetness, she covers it in more of her scent.  She doesn't even give the Joker room to breathe free of her musk.</p><p><em> Call it my last paycheck: you, Puddin'.  Your last breaths, owned by me.  How about </em> them <em> apples? </em></p><p>Apparently, they're apples he'd like to eat.  Or at least, he'd like to eat Harley out at long last.  She doesn't know whether he finally understands he's the joke, or whether or not he's just trying to convince her to tone the pain down by licking her puss.  Either way, it's nice to have his attention finally.</p><p>Finally, at last, finality.  Her back arches and her shredded abs clench; warmth spreads outward from her very core.  She closes her eyes and enjoys it, just the slow, constant crunch of her legs against the Joker's head.</p><p>Ultimately unsatisfying enjoyment, but enjoyment.  Of course, given the shape his jawbone's in, that's not surprising.  It must be pretty hard for him to get that otherwise talented tongue into her deep enough to reach her G.</p><p>She will give him some credit.  But her Mistah J, he tries, lapping desperately across clenching folds and fluttering against whatever he <em> can </em> reach.  "Guess I gotta help ya there too, Puddin'?"</p><p>Harley can't manage a giggle now, just a low, moaning laugh.  Her fingers haul roughly on his hair again, shifting the angle she's got him wedged.  She strokes him up and down, tossing her head about as she wields his.</p><p>First his nose, then his lip, then finally, <em> finally </em> his tongue against her clit.  An extra jolt of pleasure strikes with that wet touch.  <em> He's mine, at last you're mine! </em></p><p>And hers, the Joker is.  She can see through her body and right to his.  There's no hatred in his eyes as he stares up from beneath her wild blonde bush.</p><p>Indeed, alongside the fear is no small amount of lust and devotion.  He's caught in the darkness of her cleft.  She glorifies in being in that light of his at last.</p><p>It's far, far more than Harley would have been ridiculously, desperately pleased to want before.  <em> I'd have been happy with just crumbs, Joker.  You had my mind twisted all in knots for you. </em></p><p>Her jaw works through those knots, grinding pleasure to cover old wounds.  While her vision sweeps the present for kilometers, her eyes look into the past.  <em> You treated me to the same chemicals, then you fed me to Red. </em></p><p>
  <em> I would have broken the world for you, if only you'd danced once with me in the ruins. </em>
</p><p>So now the Joker dances in the not-so-pale blue light.  If not with her, then certainly for her.  Jaw broken, brain rattled, skull "lightly" fractured, he manages to eat her out more ardently than ever before.  </p><p>Her ass clenches and her wriggly rumpcheeks squish in as his attention pleasures her even more than his lingual skills provide.  The burning light of the cell illuminates and glows over Harley's powerful body as she feasts on that attention at last-- no, that obedience!  The oral action is pretty good for itself, though; his long tongue swirls the flat along his clit, scooping the tip deeper into her pussy to keep pleasing her greedy tunnel.</p><p>"Yes!" she screams, meaning it perhaps more than any time she's said it-- except to Poison Ivy.  "Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"</p><p>The Joker's tongue curls and shifts, rubbing up against the left, then the right while the tip burrows relentlessly in.  The damage she's done-- and the damage her orgasmic clenching is doing-- makes it impossible for him to get where she'd want.  <em> Unless… </em></p><p><em> He seems to want to be a good little Clown Prince, at last.  And I </em> do <em> always have to do the majority of the work. </em>  The smile Harley makes then would have slapped the laugh right off his face.</p><p>If her crushing thighs hadn't already done that well enough.</p><p>She brings both hands around in front.  Cooing and groaning, she runs her huge fingers through the Joker's mussed hair, tangling it and pulling on it lightly to wiggle his face better against her cunny.  Then, one palm at the base of his skull, one at the back, she crams him down towards the bottom of the slit-- and in, in, <em> in! </em></p><p>"Here comes the J-train, into the tunnel!" Harley coos, like she was feeding a recalcitrant infant, and not jamming an already destroyed face deeper into implacable muscles.</p><p><em> Now </em> his tongue can reach her G, but of course, lazy jerk that he is, the Joker seems to have lost all ability to control it for her purposes.  Why, if her labia weren't keeping his chin up and cheeks  squeezed, he'd probably be trying to retract it!  <em> That might be the pain, I guess. </em></p><p>But Harley predicted that.</p><p>So her fingers flex every time she feels his jaw and throat "muscles" try to pull back.  Harder when he doesn't start to lick.  She only relaxes them when he gets to really working his tongue against her G-spot.</p><p>No technique, no finesse, none of that Mistah J style.  But she's sick of that style-- deathly sick.  As her left hand goes up to swirl her middle finger over her clit, her bulging, mega-amazonian thighs taking over part of the job of holding his face fast against her vagina, he just slaps his tongue against the spot, again and again.</p><p>It's enough.  Abruptly, she throws her head back and lets out a long, laughing call.  "Ahhhh-ha-ha-ha-YEAH!" she screams, her pigtails bouncing wildly behind her.</p><p>Harley even lets his head fall a bit further away from her musky sex before catching it with her right hand, fingers swooping down to make sure his neck doesn't shear too far.</p><p>Of course, he doesn't get the chance to say much.  Not when she's squirting all over his face.  "Ooh, this is familiar at least, Puddin'!  Really brings back memories!"</p><p>Well, her vaginal muscles didn't <em> used </em> to have the ability to squirt femmecum hard enough and fast enough to paint bruises beneath his facepaint and its own.  He screams, and she makes sure to let her juices splat down his open throat.  <em> Now </em> you <em> rinse and swallow, asshole! </em></p><p>Other than that, it does bring back… memories.  When the Joker's "humor" and their time together aligned, he was always endlessly able to use that tongue for her.  Of course, sometimes, his humor involved eating her out to the <em> edge </em> of a good squirt-- then stopping and ordering her to do anything from sucking him off to just leaving the room.</p><p>Without her clothes.</p><p>Even if it hadn't been for the <em> thirty fucking minutes </em> of fat jokes and tit jokes and just plain <em> stupid </em> jokes, she dooms the Joker.  He's managed to taint so much that even the highest burst of pleasure in her new life or old burns her with humiliation.  Every memory of pleasure with him is tainted by his "pranks," and his "whimsy," and of course, constant criticism.</p><p>She could never even be abused enough for his pleasure.</p><p>She was never even a good enough <em> doll </em> , let alone a moll, to keep his interest, his devotion.  Harley can't even be sure he didn't cheat on her when <em> she </em>was out of Arkham.  He's had a lot of "Man Cave" time, after all.</p><p>And that doesn't even count when the Joker just left her to rot in Arkham, not even rescuing her a tenth of the times she sprang him as his psych and his henchbabe both.</p><p>The thought puts an end to Harley's climax, more or less.  The thoughts leave her burnt and cold alike, sitting atop him in a cell which could be said to be the real heart of Arkham.  Still she's had her fun, and she doesn't really have much more use for him anyway.</p><p>She wouldn't want him to miss the punchline.  Her teeth clench tight and her chin tucks in.  She sees him, sees every part of him, and the tears can't hide him anymore.</p><p>
  <em> You were never laughing with me, were you? </em>
</p><p>Beneath her, his body begins to slump, and she feels his pain.  It's delicious, like a thousand of his tongues all working her clit and sex together.  But even that doesn't bring a new smile.</p><p>Just a sneer.  "It's really <em> big </em> of you to see yourself to the way out, Mistah J!"  Each word is groaned out, her eyes rolling back, and heat blasts over her cheeks.</p><p>But the reflexes remain the same and the <em> Hunger </em> remains the same.  "Let's just call this my two fucks notice," she says, falsetto-sweet.  Then her voice drops to its Brooklyn best as she growls, "An' I don't give two <em> fucks </em>for ya anymore!"</p><p>Her whole big body is quivering atop his.  Each orgasm leaves her more and more sensitive to the next.  Just like each new savage revenge upon the Joker makes the next all the sweeter.</p><p>Her broad back ripples with beautiful power in a proliferation of bulges, tensing all the way up to the bulge of her trapeziuses, pushing smoothly into her neck.  Her hands hold his head carefully, lest the muscles in her fingers alone bring too early an end.  Her back is almost perpetually arched, her shredded stomach taut and her huge, wobbly melons bouncing up and down like they were riding <em> her </em> like she's riding the Joker.</p><p>Only Harley is a lot tougher.  Arms tightening only a little, not from strain but just showing off their chiseled ultra-physique as she scrubs his face up and down against her wetness.  And it is <em> good; </em> in mere moments, she bites her lower lip and lets her eyes widen in pleasure.</p><p>Mostly stable but still pumping his face regularly up and down, her legs quiver and shake around him.  The new control means that her thighs can be all sorts of quivery <em> around </em> his head and only bounce him around.  Her toes thump and drum like fingers, leaving cracks in the floor as they go.</p><p>Then she climaxes again.  "<em> YES! </em>" she screams, and actually spreads her thighs apart, knees sliding and tearing the padding that her toes haven't already destroyed.  Her jiggly tush tucks in and down, the round, pert fat of her cheeks being displaced by the massive glutes beneath.</p><p>Her pussy clenches, her core clenches, her <em> body </em> clenches, huge muscles bulging wildly.  If the Joker was still plastered against her puss, he'd have lost his head.  And not just from her scent.</p><p>Cracking his skull against the no-longer padded floor isn't probably much better, but she howls with laughter anyway.  Not only is her "boss" drooling where his face isn't bleeding, he's jerking and gyrating his hips up and down, a huge bulge in his pants clearly spraying one last orgasm.  She saw it, but it didn't register-- he just wasn't important enough, and his cock certainly wasn't.</p><p>"Call that a f… fuh… final… ooh," she moans.  "A final bit of molling."</p><p>Groaning all the way down and despite how huge her legs are, and how thickly muscled, Harley slides into a forward splits.  Almost delicately, her left leg comfortably extends forward and makes her calf and the back of her left thigh grind into rough-hewn display, while her right shows the same off in symmetric flexion-extension.  It doesn't even matter which she's using, she finds; the added web of muscles making shapely fractals of strength let her make whatever pose she wants atop.</p><p>At least while she's not using them to her fullest-- and why would something as easy as facefucking the Joker require that?</p><p>Soon enough, her dripping snatch is a centimeter, maybe two from the wreck of the Joker's smile.  "Mmm, back to work, Puddin'!" she says gleefully-- but she barely feels him breathing against her expectant sex.</p><p>Not that she doesn't understand why, of course.  He's barely conscious, choking and agonized and thoroughly beaten.  She taunts him anyway.</p><p>"Aw, you useta love you some Harley's Quim!"  Making a melodramatic sigh, she slaps her right palm against her forehead-- and reaches back to slap his still-stiff cock around.  "Has the life gone out of our relationship that much?"</p><p>The Joker, defeated, groans, but little else.</p><p>"Awww," she repeats, and gently cradles his repeatedly fractured skull, pulling his head slowly forward.  She rotates her split a few degrees to either side, giving his rail-thin shoulders room to come up without being abused-- really, she hasn't done much at all to anything but his head since first disabling him.</p><p>Now, she is delicate with him.  He's wheezing heavily, one eye open, then closed, out of synch with the other.  The smile she once loved before she realized what he was smiling <em> at </em>-- it's gone, ruined and marked with blood and pleasure.</p><p>"Poor, tired Puddin'," Harley coos.  Then her own smile, fiercer, more joyful, even more broad, draws across her face like he'd painted it there.</p><p><em> He has.  Not just in a way.  He </em> has <em> painted that smile on me. </em></p><p>"Lemme take care of <em> everything </em>, Mistah J," she adds, when he says nothing.  To that, he only groans, head slumping slightly to the left.</p><p>Harley pulls his body up past legs bigger than he is, into arms with more definition than he's ever had, even on Titan, held by fingers stronger than his whole body.  Psychopathic mass-murderer, poisoner, torturer, mastermind, and jaywalker extraordinaire-- moonwalking, because her ex-Puddin' is nothing if not derivative-- she carefully pulls him into her embrace like he was made of spun glass.</p><p>Her incredible senses show her every flash and flicker of light in the broken not-really-glass on his cell.  Every distortion, from every angle, as clear as though she was looking through an interrogation room window.  <em> About all our relationship was, really. </em></p><p>
  <em> Smoked glass and bent mirrors. </em>
</p><p>Her enormous, enormously curvy legs scissor around so lightly they barely disturb the shredded padding on the floor.  Soon, she's got the Joker braced on her ball-sized calves, but her power-packed thighs, thicker than many chairs, are held carefully away from the battered Joker.  She smiles for them both, and scoops her broad arms carefully about him.</p><p>"That's it, Mistah J," Harley says, nodding to herself more than him.  "Up ya go.  Gotta getcha real comfy."</p><p>She considers his shirt and jacket; she's left deep clawmarks in them, but his outfit is such a part of him in many ways.  Despite the fabric in between her fingers and his back, she strokes him with such deft care that he begins to groan softly.</p><p>With pleasure, not with pain.  Her fingertips massage the tension out from his back that rape and pain poured into him.  All the savagery of her revenge is melted out from him.</p><p>Except the continuous agony of his face, of course, but there's no pleasing some men.</p><p>When he's mostly limp, save for the occasional bloody, shuddering sob, she pulls him all the closer, right up to the soft press of her breasts.  They're big and warm and soft, all around him.  Although her arms are rock-hard and rippling like river-worn boulders eroded into another, she manages to bring him so far into her girls' squish that her breasts deform around him.</p><p>She can't help but giggle again, giggle and repeat "Ooooh," the further she pushes him against her overgenerous tits.  Interior of her nipples, towards the center of her body, his stiff little shoulders and arms push her perky breastflesh inwards, her sensitive areolae are pushed back too, constantly rubbing against the fabric of his purple jacket.</p><p>"Yeah, Puddin', come inta your Harley's pillows," she urges, the 'ows' more like 'ahhhhhs.'  Since all he does is mutter incoherently, drool, and bleed, she shrugs a bit, jostling her sensitive titties against him more.</p><p>Harley feels almost nostalgic, now that he's finding new ways to please her.  "Oooh, gonna get me cummin' onta <em> you! </em>" she half-squeals-- and closes her eyes, ducking her head to kiss his broken smile.</p><p>His tortured breathing heaves his mouth; about all the kiss she's going to get.  "What, no tongue?"  She shrugs, making her breasts jostle around him again.</p><p>His legs are still passing under the yoke of her thighs,so her pussy shamelessly stains his pants with her lube.  The sight is just as open to her as the Joker's face, as his body beneath the jacket and her breasts-- nearly nothing blocks her sight now.  It makes her wriggle and giggle, a whimsical little smile painting onto her pale lips.</p><p>"Looks like I get <em> you </em> wetter than you ever got me, huh, honey-pie?"  Harley wrinkles her nose cutely, but he just wheezes.  She shrugs, and settles a broad hand across both of his asscheeks and squeezes, using her forearm to keep him held in place.</p><p>"No matter.  Now…  <em> In </em>," she orders again.  He can't obey; it's the downside of leaving him unable to countermand his earlier "request."</p><p>But that's okay.  Like Harley's said before…  She's used to doing all the work.</p><p>Her breasts barely make it around the Joker's shoulders.  She's not quite as big as some of the monstrously gorgeous ladies running around in the world beyond, making everywhere their Arkham.  But she's big enough, her nipples actually pushing in against his flimsy little biceps.</p><p>
  <em> Mmm, kinda nice, that. </em>
</p><p>Then she starts hugging him for reals.  No holding back, no slow build up-- she just holds him as tightly and fervently as she once wished he'd hold her.  Relative to her body, of course.</p><p>The hug inspires something in her; like it's right, like it has to be this way.</p><p>Mid-hug, her pecs start to pump, like she's pulling on them with more than just her arms.  The banded strength above her boobs hauls hard, making it plump and pump out, like her breasts were growing again, taking it from the top.  <em> Huh, </em> she thinks.</p><p><em> They </em> are <em> growing again, kinda! </em>  The pleasure of squeezing her voluminous, voluptuous melons against the Joker begins to make her shake and shudder, so she almost misses just how like a muscle her tits are acting.  A moment ago, pleasant and soft but absurdly large.</p><p>Now?  They're squeezing around him like they were inflating.  And, like inflatable furniture, they're getting harder… and harder… and <em> harder </em> as they inflate.</p><p>The groaning in her throat is swiftly matched by groaning from within her arms and cleavage.  The squirming starts up, slow at first, but soon, her sex is gushing once again from how wildly the whimpering, moaning Joker thrashes against her super-sensitive cleavage.</p><p>Then the screaming starts.</p><p>It goes on for a long time, indeed.</p><p>Not thirty minutes, mind you.  But for at least five.</p><p>And she gets to cum again-- twice.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The story of the Joker's death-- and more importantly, the liberation of Harley Quinn-- has been told.  The dark memories flood Harley with dark design and dark intents.  It's up to Poison Ivy to peel her from this dark mood before she chokes all light out of the life to which Ivy has devoted herself.</p><p>A life serving Harley; a life loving Harley.</p><p>For all the nigh-unlimited power in her Hunter love,  Poison Ivy has the strength of the Green and the strong roots into the changed Earth that brings.  Herald of the Green, she has become.  She's been beloved of Harley Quin for far longer.</p><p>So she presses Harley to the limits of a Hunter's patience and a Hunter's willingness to endure arousal.  Suggests and slinks, inspecting Harley's captives:  Killer Croc, naked and collared and not actually too bad in a scaly sort of way and the Calculator, much the same in decor but not wearing it so well.</p><p>To their number, she offers herself.  Perhaps as a slave, never a spouse but she hopes to be made permanent submissive.</p><p>And perhaps, something not too unlike a wife-- a concubine.  It's a gamble...</p><p>But there are consequences for her crush on Harley Quinn.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"So then I says to him-- well, what's left of him-- I says, 'Thanks for the mammaries, jackass!"  Harley laughs to herself, barely arresting her motion short of slapping her left hand on her super-strong thigh.  She gropes their trembling server on the butt instead, and reaches into his 'banana hammock.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poison Ivy isn't sure which she's more taken aback by-- the gruesome end to her friend's story of liberation, or by what she's doing to the server.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following Ivy's horrified stare, Harley rolls her eyes.  "Aw, c'mon, Red!" she whines.  "I'm just giving him a tip!"  Ivy can't quite see what she does then, but it makes him cross his eyes and whimper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The young man-- early twenties at most, is starting to drool and shake where he stands, bouncing back and forth.  Harley's big arm is bulging yet again-- a little taut tricep then bulking bicep, the curling fibers of her adductors and extensors on her forearm shifting sinuously about, like a time-lapse picture of vines growing through the summer and withering in winter, only to return less than a breath later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pants and grunts, leaning forward and suddenly clinging to Harley's burly forearm, his shoulders barely wider than it as his eyes cross further.  "A </span>
  <em>
    <span>tip</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley?" Ivy asks, aghast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Harley giggles.  "A fiver, too," she says with a snort.  Without pausing with the shanghaied server, she holds up her right hand-- a sausage clasped in her supple fingers-- and begins to make jerking motions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her thumb pays special attention to the end of the sausage, at that.  "See?  A fiver </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> the tip," she explains, wiggling her four fingers and the thumb in sequence, never quite letting her phallic substitute drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The server begins to make deeper moaning noises, drool falling from his mouth.  His flat hips begin to react to Harley's rapid motion, gyrating back and forth as Harley swiftly plays with his stiffness.  Ivy watches, not quite horrified anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Quorum warned me about the sex and the violence,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she reminds herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And this is Harley; some of this was always going to happen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite looking at Poison Ivy the whole time, smiling brightly, Harley is keeping both hands steady, retaining the sausage in place despite the jerking motion and the flutter of her fingers.  In fact-- Ivy's somewhat risqué past tactics coming back to haunt her-- judging by what she's doing to the sausage, Ivy thinks Harley is giving the young man quite the ride.  "How…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Got lotsa multitaskin' stuff goin' on now," Harley explains.  "This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothin'</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the server grunts and moans, sweat pouring off his dazed face, he hugs tighter and tighter onto Harley's arm.  "That's it, cutie," she purrs at him.  "Ya wanna cum for Harley?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please!" he says, finally managing words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What would ya give up for it?" Harley smirks.  "Guys'd kill for a ride like this."  Both hands move faster, the fingers on the sausage virtually a blur, like they were all different folds of the same tunnel, the thumb the deepest stimulus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guys would </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a ride like this," she breathes softly, her own moan joining the server's frantic pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley!" Ivy says, aghast.  "This isn't you!  Not even a Hunter Harley!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mistah J used me for years, Red," Harley says calmly.  "Now this little punk is cumming into my hand."  He's certainly squealing now, Harley's deepness cutting through his high-pitched whimpers.  "Cumming right into my palm now, actually."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls the sausage up to her full, full lips, and slowly loosens her grip on it.  Her tongue comes up to tangle around the tip first, holding it there while the young man shudders throughout his captive climax.  Then, not changing her hold on it at all, she laps her tongue further out-- pulling the sausage down… down… down, deepthroating it and finally swallowing it completely with a loud gulp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Miss!" the young man wails, wrapping his arms tighter around Harley's arm.  Ivy can tell-- the look, the sudden jerk of his clenching ass, the shudder-- he's gone right into another orgasm, creaming in Harley's now unmoving hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley ignores him, like he was nothing more than a stage prop.  Her eyes coldly meet Ivy's, the crystal blue in them stormy.  "Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> this isn't me, Red?" she breathes.  "Sure enough to be my potted plant, hmm?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," Ivy says firmly.  She reaches across the table, and tugs on Harley's big forearm right where it's tucked into the stained improvised undergarment.  The first tug gets nowhere, Ivy's own enlarged muscles heaving to no effect and making </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> grunt now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she keeps her stare on Harley's, refusing to be intimidated.  She holds up her other hand at the young man, and, as Harley reluctantly follows her, pulls the bigger woman's cumstained hand out from the server's "waistband."  "It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> you, Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You sure enough to--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy isn't particularly fond of men.  She's used them, killed them, sometimes, saved them.  She's fucked them-- as little as possible, thanks to her pheromones making it easy to make them </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> they've had sex, and desperate for more of what they never had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Harley lets her pull the seed-coated hand up and over the table, Ivy is careful not to let it smear onto the young man's belly.  She's delicate with it, almost fastidious, but as a drip of spooge starts to form, Ivy ducks her head down.  To Harley's shock, Ivy begins to lap up the spunk before it can fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Red," Harley whispers.  "What're ya…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy ignores her.  She makes sure to completely lick up the (unfortunately and typically) salty, almost metallic stickiness from all around the edges of Harley's hand and fingers before making her case more directly.  Hollowing her cheeks and bobbing her head back and forth so expertly that the server blushes brightly and turns away, of all ridiculous things, Ivy sucks on Harley's thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then her forefinger.  As she opens her mouth to go for Harley's middle finger, the big Hunter jerks her hand back and away.  "You made your point, Red!" she says, tears starting to form at the edges of her cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Harley gruffly shoos the server away with an order for "fudge sundaes, hold your banana unless you want it split," Ivy shakes her head.  "I haven't even started, Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She inhales, making her smaller but still fairly impressive chest heave.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I've made my choice,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she reminds herself.  Then she meets Harley's gaze once more, fiercer than ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wh-what, Pammie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Give.  Me.  Your.  Hand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the vast power imbalance between the two of them, Harley doesn't resist when Ivy yanks on her wrist again.  She doesn't help, either, her new bulk heavy and awkward with Harley's limpness.  That doesn't stop Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pammie," Harley whispers, blushing.  "You're makin' me wet-- that's </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Pammie!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy looks up from her 'meal.'  "Don't you think I know that, Harley?  Do you think so little of me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she returns to licking up the spent semen.  She takes her time, stroking her tongue over the big prominences of Harley's palm, massaging them slowly.  She makes the time to lick in part of the load before it drools over her cheek, and makes sure to tickle the tonguetip against a familiar little dip in Harley's wrist on the way back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dip that makes Harley gasp and jerk the hand about-- but not away-- her musk thickening once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Ivy some time to finish cleaning Harley's wrist.  "I used to be the sexier one," Ivy says softly.  "The seductress."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, she swirls her finger over her lips, cleaning up the last bits of cum.  "Now, all I can do is barely turn you on-- don't deny it!" she accuses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pammie…"  Harley closes her eyes.  "Yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So yeah, Harley," Poison Ivy says sternly, and dabs at her lips with a napkin, "I</span>
  <em>
    <span> am</span>
  </em>
  <span> sure that wasn't you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The huger woman hangs her head.  "Tell the server to take the rest of the night off, please, Harley," Ivy says softly, and winces when Harley roars it back at the kitchen-- ordering the cook she'd kidnapped out, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the speed with which Harley does it, and the speed to which she returns to staring at Ivy gladdens Ivy's heart.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I was pretty sure, anyway.  But from what the Quorum said…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She banishes those doubts without even a shake of her head, calling up a long rose vine to sweep their dishes away-- onto another vine, which moves them to a nearby table.  She doesn't want a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mess</span>
  </em>
  <span> after all.  Harley just watches-- but her nipples harden slowly, and the sound of her squirming against the seat becomes squelchy and wet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy smiles weakly.  "I'm sure that wasn't you," she repeats.  "B-but Harley-- I am scared."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's fingers are at Ivy's face, so tender Ivy might be able to disbelieve Harley's deadly story-- if it weren't for the brown stains with a familiar, coppery smell.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I must get her to develop better grooming habits,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy sighs, and figures she knows how.  Harley's eyes widen as Ivy forces her tongue harder against </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> male remnants, fiercely cleaning them off before nuzzling back into Harley's hands once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know I can't be your only, Harley," Ivy says.  "The Green made sure I knew what I was getting into, you see."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Harley moves as if to speak, Ivy silences her with a shake of her head, kissing first Harley's right, then her left wrist. "No, Harley, let me finish.  Please."</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding slowly, Harley continues to caress Ivy's cheek.  Ivy closes her eyes, and inhales Harley's spicy-heady scent, letting it banish the taste from her mouth.  "Thank you," she says slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley, I know how Hungry you are.  The Green knew your foremothers.  I know that you want to hurt me, right here, right now.  Don't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, but--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you do.  And you need to.  You wore that madness so much better than he ever did, you know, and you cried with it, so you're fed so much better than so many of your sisters."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened to you before will feed you-- but you don't want to be the Joker writ large and with breasts, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eugh!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good.  Because that's what I'm afraid of.  Not of the pain you </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> cause me-- Mistress Harley," Ivy purrs, giving Harley long enough to blush-- and smirk right back.  "But of the pain and terror you will make of </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you're here alone-- surrounded by women who are about to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> direction, just with orgasms instead of jokes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley bops her head from side to side, shrugging her craggy shoulders.  She acknowledges the point easily enough.  "So?" she asks, her eyes flitting over Ivy's leaf-clad form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy smiles.  "So let me be here for you."  She flexes her arm.  The bicep she shows off would have been at home on a kryptonian-- on Superman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley leans over, fascinated.  "You see what the Quorum did, right, Harley?" Ivy asks.  "I'm scared of you, yes-- but I'm stronger, now.  And I'm more scared about what would happen to my </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>, alone." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see ya, Red-- I saw what was waitin' in that branch…"  Harley's big hand stretches out over the smaller woman's bicep.  Ivy isn't so much shorter, nor less developed, that her bicep fits easily in the grasp of her huge friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, owner; maybe, if Ivy is lucky, simply mistress, with no owner attached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has to believe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley's bigger body does contain far more </span>
  <em>
    <span>power</span>
  </em>
  <span> than Poison Ivy's.  Ivy only keeps up enough resistance to let Harley feel how strong the Green made her; she doesn't dare fight against the painful, bruising force that makes her arm go straight out.  "It's so pretty, Red," Harley whispers.  "An' so much tougher than my biggah new toy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whimper comes from the far corner of the diner, earning a glare from Harley that gets the huge, reptilian man near-frozen in terrified awe, biting his sharp fangs into the flesh of his arm to prevent himself from speaking.  He's still rock hard, staring at Harley with fierce adoration even as his fangs sink in deep.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Appropriate.  I'm glad Waylon's making the transition easily enough.  Noah…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The smaller man to his right just shudders and shakes, watching Harley with wide eyes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Noah is not, I fear.  A pity...   He's got so much to offer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In administrative capacities, and organizational, at least.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy quirks an eyebrow, looking skeptically over Noah Kuttler.  She knew both sides of the man-- the CEO of an eco-friendly tech corporation…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the blackmailer and information broker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's forcing himself to hold his arms behind his back; that, at least, gets Harley's deadly grin of approval.  It puts his fear arousal on full-- unimpressive-- display, the circumcized fifteen centimeters, barely above average.  Not ugly, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>lacking</span>
  </em>
  <span>; certainly, a plump enough crown and at least some girth retained past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy would have said Harley deserved better anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the throbbing, dark-pink length between Killer Croc's thighs.  Longer </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> thicker than the Calculator's, Ivy-- to whom male anatomy functioned more as a lever and less as a pleaser-- isn't just impressed; she's not entirely certain that she'd be wholly comfortable with that </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Which makes him far better suited for Harley's two point three-one scale, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Prettier, too, and not just in the overabundance and nice balance between girth and length, either.  Ivy doesn't care much about anyone's religious choices, she'd never been fond of those who remove mustelids' natural coats.  Why wouldn't another (not-so) small, wiggly creature look better with its hood?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though the Croc's is retracted, along several interesting, rounded ridges that manage to be suggestive of tactile beauty without being too alien.  The scales never made it down there, and this stiff, there's no wrinkliness, just a long, smooth length with nice, juicy veins keeping it well fed and on complete display.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think I'll see if I can get Harley to let me shave him, though; it just makes his balls look like fuzzy peaches, matching neither the shaft nor the scales elsewhere.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Besides, given what I and most women were expected to maintain before, with far less rationale…  Turnabout is fair play, in the new order.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She smiles secretively at the pair, making Noah Kuttler turn, shaking with terrified little shudders, and the Croc turn to Harley, moaning with the latter's approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both men are completely naked; Croc's mottled scale-like skin and the Calculator's rather more </span>
  <em>
    <span>pasty</span>
  </em>
  <span> look.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He used to at least have a little bit of tan and tone.  He's gotten lazy, since he stopped actually fighting in his Calculator Armor.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy has never had a huge amount of compassion for humans; even what she's gained over the years is for the species as a whole-- primarily children, or those taken advantage of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there's something to despise about both of them.  A berserk murderer who </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannibalized</span>
  </em>
  <span> the doctor who tried to cure him twice-- succeeding once but not again after his condition worsened?  An utterly amoral man who'd decided that attempting to complete the Anti-Life Equation, endangering the </span>
  <em>
    <span>multiverse</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in some hopes that </span>
  <em>
    <span>shoving part of it into his daughter's brain </span>
  </em>
  <span>would save her life?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But of course, Ivy herself has numerous deaths on her conscience-- far more than both together, even if you counted the consequences of the Calculator's actions.  And Harley herself has clearly raped both men; from what Ivy was told of Hunters, they won't be the last.  Then there was her time as moll and aide to one of the worst mass-murderers in Arkham.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What else are these men?  Waylon Jones, atavistic </span>
  <em>
    <span>freak.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Or that's what they called him; atavist if it was clinical, academic disgust; freak if it was more honest, open revulsion.  And while he was willing to kill to get ahead, the berserk </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> the cannibal parts came after rejected attempts at redemption… and having his DNA and mind scrambled to better attack the Bat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon Jones is a victim, experimented on by an even more sadistic genius.  Tortured, his life and personality unimportant </span>
  <em>
    <span>baggage</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be discarded, his life ruined by the very powers granted to him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now where have I heard that before? </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinks the former Doctor Pamela Lillian Isley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whose very connection to the Green and ability to produce control pheromones were the result of torturous experiments she was seduced into by her thesis advisor-- nearly killing her twice.  Who still doesn't know how much of her own anger and hatred came from the hormonal mood swings the Fluoronic Man's experiments induced.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If he'd left me alone, I would be Harley's peer, not begging to be made prize piece of her garden.  And Waylon was a good ally, when it mattered-- loyal, if you had his respect.  He'll be a good servant for Harley.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As for the Calculator?  Certainly, he arranged for horrible crimes and was-- in the manner of information brokers everywhere-- a chancy source, and a part of some of the more world-threatening events of the past few decades.  Not to mention cosmos-threatening, in the case of the Anti-Life Equation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he is, in fact, quite smart, and his more </span>
  <em>
    <span>traditional</span>
  </em>
  <span> corporation not only passes Poison Ivy's drop dead test breathing quite well, but it's supposed to be extremely supportive of its staff, a rarity among today's vulture capitalists, let alone a tech venture.  Harley may be a supergenius now, but she'll need administrative staff to carry out her vision.  And he did what he did for his daughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's love for Harley that brought Ivy out of the Green, and love for Harley that makes Ivy her aggressive partisan.  But Ivy can't deny she hopes to make a shelter for her Sporelings.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rose, Hazel, and Thorn, my loves…  </span>
  </em>
  <span>She looks fondly up at her beautiful Hunter.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>In Harley's garden, you will turn to the sun without fear.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So yes, Ivy thinks that ferocious men like Killer Croc and devious men like the Calculator should be under the strong, stern hand of Harley Quinn.  She thinks they'll do well; there are far, far worse mistresses in the world now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If nothing else, Ivy's sweet Harl grown to a mighty oak doesn't have the bloodlust orgasm.  The Joker earned his </span>
  <em>
    <span>retirement.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Even now, even with Kuttler still trying her patience…  Harley </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> that patience, for those who will serve well.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I'd like something of that strong, stern hand on </span>
  </em>
  <span>this</span>
  <em>
    <span> woman occasionally too, please… Just a little bit more loving.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>To Harley, she says, "Well-- I suspect I </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> had bigger, better muscles than the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Calculator</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley, please!  I kept up with my gymnastics and tae kwan do, after all!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just smart, around these handsy types," Harley sniffs-- and gropes Ivy's chiseled arm a bit more possessively.  Ivy's glad to see Harley's tongue stroke reflexively over her lips, and luxuriates in that possession and those fondles.  In a way she'd be far less tolerant of, say, Waylon Jones there.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I did offer first, after all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy shifts out of her seat, letting her arm extend so that she is never out of Harley's grip.  The leggy strut her shapely hips roll out would make Jessica Rabbit drool and pout with envy.  That's not a blessing of the Quorum; that's all, and always has been, Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's always been at least as hippy as Ivy, of course, and the Pulse was far more generous than the Green could ever afford to be with Ivy.  But as her elegant feet and powerful legs swish towards Harley's seat, Ivy still thinks she may have an edge in the sway department.  Even if Harley has a finer load of booty.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did I just think that?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy wonders.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or is it a natural consequence of trying to seduce Hunter Harley Quinn?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking her head slightly, Ivy tilts her head to the right a bit, fluttering her eyelashes at Harley, then nods at the table.  Harley, for her part, narrows her eyes at Ivy.  "Red, you know that torch-singer-slash-gold-digger shit ain't gonna work with me, right?  If that's why you think you can be with me…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy giggles.  "I know that you have more senses than the Green and the Red taken as a whole-- combined now," she says soothing, patting Harley's gigantic deltoid and sighing happily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Root-solid and tougher than ancient oak could ever dream, the pale, banded promontory of power is warm and slightly vibrating to the touch, constantly translating the motion of Harley's back and chest and arm, a mighty node of traffic for fibrous, systematic exchange.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just that one deltoid, the far, curved end of the shoulder, and it's bigger than Killer Croc's flexed bicep would be.  Ivy's certain from the awed atavist's cringe that Harley's shown him the difference in power.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The difference-- oh, that would be nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's left eyebrow makes a wriggly, slightly goofy quirk at Ivy's sudden smile.  "Anyway," Ivy says primly.  "I don't intend to try to control you.  If I advise you, it will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>advice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  But don't you like the way I look… when I'm begging you with my eyes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soft catch in Ivy's tone makes the bigger woman suck in her breath in a rush, letting her lower lip run through her teeth.  Her hand on Ivy's thinner, yet still strong arm clenches again-- hard enough for Ivy to wince, hard enough for her nipples to stiffen themselves.  Harley's corded throat swallows, and she nods again, looking at Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Audition part two, it seems</span>
  </em>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy shifts her well-padded yet perky hips to the right this time.  They're bare of all save leaves, Ivy's body covered with just enough of them to form a sort of one-piece swimsuit or unitard; they certainly don't go over even all of her hips, and they skip her shoulders entirely.  They conceal Ivy's achingly stiff nipples and even harder clit from the view of the males, but nothing save stone can block the sight of Harley Quinn now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Harley can see Ivy's pussy as she moves.  Can see the already engorged labia growing fat and moist as Ivy gets hornier and hornier for Harley Quinn.  Ivy's hip undulates, rolling curves and fat over powerful animal-plant hybrid muscles, shaking her rear towards the table that's now in their way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy thrusts her chest forward, jiggling round, smoothly green melons that aren't even a </span>
  <em>
    <span>twelfth</span>
  </em>
  <span> the size of Harley's now.  She feels a brief burn of humiliation, expects it, turns it into a whimpering sigh that leaves both enslaved men biting their wrists to keep from grunting at the raw sensuality of it all.  Then she gives Harley's powerful thighs a hopeful look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And licks her dark tongue from one corner of her lips to the next.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fwip-chunk!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley's hand moves so fast, Ivy can't even see it.  The top of the table is completely off again, and propped up against the wall of the diner.  "Yeah, Pammie-- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> that.  C'mere."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not so much stepping forward as gliding sinuously into Harley's broad lap, Ivy discovers that the queenly muscle-woman that is Harley Quinn just has thighs too big for Ivy to comfortably straddle.  So she instead stretches her shins and knees </span>
  <em>
    <span>atop</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley's ghostly-pale skin.  Resting on the power of her quads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's well-sculpted arms-- looking merely toned when she's standing in front of the broad, brawny shoulders of Harley Quinn!-- and supple hands reach up into her long, red hair, priming it about up and behind her.   While her luxurious mane dances, the flowers in it snaking through the leaves that "clothe" Poison Ivy turn brilliant oranges and red at her mental command.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley takes a sharp intake of breath.  Her musk thickens as her already immense nipples engorge, her taste dominating the scent of Ivy's pheromones all the more on the air.  "Oh, Red--" she groans, fingers trembling as she reaches for the smaller woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her brow tightens and she chews the inside of her cheek. "Red, I said I wanna hurt you, but--"  The thought of ripping off little bits of Ivy does not, apparently, appeal.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, I'm glad of that!  Not my kink.  Not my kink at all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ivy, you're not one of us," Harley says slowly.  "I want you so badly.  But I don't want to be your Mistah J.  I don't want to stifle you."  She reaches up and strokes Ivy's chin with her enlarged hand, pale, almost ghostly, white over a suddenly red-tinted green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood and chlorophyll; not a symbiote, but a meld.  Ivy reaches forward and takes Harley's hand in both of hers, planting her thumbs on Harley's wrists-- right on the artery.  She massages slowly, feeling the bigger woman's heartbeat quicken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You see what I could be.  If I had been human, still-- I would have been a Hunter.  You see it, Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Harley groans.  She squirms in her seat, bare ass clenching almost as hard as her powerful quads.  "But, Pammie-- you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  And you can't be."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's her turn to reach up.  To place her broader hand atop Ivy's, and squeeze firmly.  "I-- I don't know why you look so good to me.  Better than you ever have."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice is almost breaking like a boy's, in a body no man could match.  "I don't know why, but it hurts so-- Ivy, I gotta make you see."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those blue eyes of hers become fiercer; a dread power.  "You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go back to th' Green, Ivy," she insists.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy knows she has just this one chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy smirks.  "Promise me," she breathes, kissing the air as she does and continuing to jiggle her now brilliantly clad breasts at Harley.  "Promise me you'll be good to me; that you'll do your best to listen to me; that you'll look after my interests and your hobbies as best you can…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley groans.  She might not be willing to rip the leaves off Ivy, but she certainly has no problem with grabbing the succulent flesh beneath, sliding her hands over Ivy's green breastflesh, squeezing and rubbing indiscriminately.  Ivy lets out a long whine at the touch, her arousal beginning to drip onto Harley's bare thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither minds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promise me that," Ivy says.  "Then promise me you'll use me for your lusts </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> love; promise me you won't </span>
  <em>
    <span>harm</span>
  </em>
  <span> me if it's in your power…"  Her eyes run up and down the curvy beauty of Harley Quinn.  "And you can have me, Harley.  Because I know a secret-- two secrets, in fact."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley swallows heavily again, her fingers stopping frustratingly short of Ivy's nipples, tensing against her sensitive areolae.  "Wh-whatcha got, Red?" she asks.  "I th-think I'd promise you nearly anything if you keep offerin' me…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> won't use you, abuse you, or mock you.  I promise that-- and whatever else you need me to promise, Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The atmosphere grows thick and charged between the pair, like a storm about to discharge.  "What do you know, Pammie?" Harley asks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"First-- I know that Hunters can extend a mating bond to powerful beings-- as long as they're powerful </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>."  Ivy grins.  "I'm pretty powerful now, Ivy; stronger than Woodrue or Swamp Thing ever were in lots of ways."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Though Alec will have his moment in the sun when Gaia-Geb finishes… domesticating… him.  I won't begrudge him that.  But that's the future.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"And as a Herald of the Green, I partake of the changed Earth.  It nourishes me, and makes me strong."  She bites her lip.  "And when that changed Earth is set against you Hunters… it makes me </span>
  <em>
    <span>tough</span>
  </em>
  <span>, more importantly."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't be your wife, my sweet Harley," Ivy says, gyrating her hips and breasts nice and slow.  Sinuously shaking her body for Harley, like a stripper in a bar-- but from Ivy, Harley may take what she wants.  "I can't truly mate with you, as they do.  And I'm not your equal, I never will be."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She twists her lips.  "There are </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hunters I'd surprise, trust me-- but not you.  But that doesn't mean you can't take me on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes</span>
  </em>
  <span> leash-- but an always collar."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers stroke over her throat-- the lines are faint there, but growing distinct.  Two parallel lines, coming together, each just short of the throat.  A blank spot-- but room for an insignia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley tilts her head to the left.  Her forever-"dyed" hair bounces about.  "D'ya mean…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Take me as your submissive, Harley.  I want to be Poison Ivy, Herald of the Green, concubine of Harley Quinn," Ivy says and arches her back.  Her drying leaves crackle, inflexible now, barely able to disguise the pastel green of her areolae, let alone the red-furred mound of her pussy.  The very </span>
  <em>
    <span>damp</span>
  </em>
  <span> red-furred mound.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Partaking in the essence of the Green, of the Quorum of Flowers, Poison Ivy has been made something more than merely the living messenger and spokeswoman for the sum total of vegetative life on the planet.  As Herald of the Green, she has been granted the lion's share of its Earthpower, the feudal blessing of Gaia-Geb upon plant life that has not been granted to poor Alec Holland, undergoing transformation in the palm of the Parent-Jailer.  The Green wants her to be able to at least survive the mild irritation of powerful Hunters and assassination attempts from low-moderate.</p><p>The designs of the Green and the designs of Poison Ivy are aligned here, for if it was not for the treacherous experiments of the alien Floronic Man, Pamela Isley would have been a plant-loving Hunter herself, beloved and loving Harleen Quinzel.  But neither are unchanged.   Ivy still wants Harley's love, though.</p><p>And the power of the Green gives her the chance to have it.  Already stronger and brawnier than Power Girl by far, Ivy can earn the love and become the bonded concubine of Harley, then to become a fit subbie bitch for her beloved through the power of Growth Dance.</p><p>Spring is strong in her, fertile and growing!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"Please," Poison Ivy begs as the stunned Hunter looks her up and down.  "Please bond with me, Harley; please bond with me and claim me as your own."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You sure this can be done, Ivy?  From what I see of those girls out there-- even the nice ones ain't exactly pickin' up boys, other than over their heads.  And even powerful women who </span>
  <em>
    <span>ain't</span>
  </em>
  <span> us…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Quorum was taught your rituals and your reasons by Gaia-Geb her-himself," Ivy says seriously.  "And I volunteered to come into your world again, and tell you and your sisters the language of Flowers."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For once, Harley Quinn isn't joking.  "You don't have to be with me for that-- an' you can leave, if you're not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I'd leave my heart behind, Harley.  And yes-- I know the rituals.  It's so simple, nearly as simple as swearing to another Hunter."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy reaches down for more of Harley's big, beefy forearm.  She applies her fingertips in short caresses over the impossible strength and impossibly tight-packed grooves of the muscles barely contained by so-taut skin.  "Promise me," she whispers again, "And I'm yours.  If you start making the promises, the rest will come-- as long as the one to whom you promise is not too far beneath you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inhaling deeply, shaking her leaves and her generous chest, Ivy concentrates, and sends her consciousness outwards, into the Green.  "There-- do you see that one, over in Newark?" she asks, concentrating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh-huh," Harley says, her brow furrowing and her muscles bulging.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jealousy can be a bad sign-- but not now, I think.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you told me to fight her-- I would have a decent chance of not dying if I ambushed her somewhere surrounded by plants and good, dark earth, even though I couldn't fight the things </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> can fight.  And though most geokinetics..."  Harley doesn't interrupt to ask what an earth-mover is; she was always smart, but now…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Though they only have the power of the changed Earth on their bound home soil, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> am a Herald of the Green, a diplomat and mouthpiece for the Earth.  I'd lose some of that if I attacked her out of nowhere, but…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She winks at Harley, and brings Harley's hands up towards her own not-inconsiderable bicep.  "Let me flex first… there…"  Ivy's first curls up, green flesh vibrating-- and her arm makes a decent bulge, if still smaller than Harley's at rest.  Larger than Killer Croc's best, despite nearly two feet in height's difference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice catches.  "Squeeze me gentle, Harley dear.  Squeeze me gentle, and see what Gaia-Geb has graciously allowed her new servants."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting her lip, Harley nods.  The motion of the grip is no different than if Ivy-- or the Calculator-- had taken a chopstick or a pencil out of bamboo.  It hardly even moves the coiled bulk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, Ivy winces, feeling Harley's strength grow and grow.  Though Harley's brow furrows further and she chews harder on that lower lip, her arousal soaks the seat anew.  Ivy groans and pants, nodding in swift, encouraging jerks to Harley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley," she groans.  "Don't be afraid to hurt me a little.  Not with how I've been made-- for you.  For your sister Hunters, but mostly, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How, Pammie?" Harley whispers.  Her fingers easily span the bulge, though they must spread from simple logistics.  As they clench, they form a vice that could crush steel-- turn the hardest hypertech alloys to dust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's bicep is big and smooth, with little enough between it and the surface, so some of the banding and tightness at the edges can be seen.  Respect forms in Harley's eyes as bruises form on Ivy's bicep.  Because while Harley is of course still being exquisitely gentle, she's a lot less so than she'd need to be with Killer Croc over there in the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who is shuddering and curling his whole two-point-two-six centimeters into as tight of a ball as he can.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> has learned what that musk means, that scent that grows with the respect in Harley's eyes.  And the squish and moist noises made from her arousal flowing freely over the seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promises have power, Harley," Ivy purrs through her honeydew honeyed lips.  "Promises that you make and keep have power-- so much power.  Some of it will take so long to understand.  But-- when you promise me, and I swear to you, it will create a connection."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They promised," Harley whispers.  Her lips pull back in a painfully sweet smile. "I wanna believe you, but these mooks promised me, an' I promised them.  Croc ain't no better, and the Calculator?.  Yeesh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy brightens, and pumps her shapely hips from side to side in smooth, sinuous motions that have Harley's head, shoulders, and multicolored hair wriggling along with.  "They don't have the strength to start.  The Calculator's barely metahuman, not really, and as for Croc…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy stares at the fetal ball of gator wrestling Croc.  "He's a pet, my dear," she tells Harley.  "But not the kind </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> can be for you.  Even the Red runs very shallow in him-- and Gaia-Geb favors the Green."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dismisses the shivering darker-green behemoth-- looking so slender in comparison to Harley, though nearly as tall.  Harley's just so meaty, just so beefy-strong with such gloriously sculpted lines that one of her arms looks-- and probably is-- bigger than the metahuman crimeboss-berserker's </span>
  <em>
    <span>waist.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And the taut power of Harley's light-toned skin looks like you could crack an egg off it, whereas Waylon Jones' mottled scales look like he'd rather be back in his shell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> supposed to be a Hunter, and that gave the Green a conduit with which to infuse me with its pittance of energies that Gaia-Geb spent on them."  She smirks.  "We both know I was always more powerful than most of those goons anyhow.  And that's how you can bond me.  If you want me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you'll have me."  It's Ivy's brow that furrows now, red slashes over green.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley.  You want me.  Don't you want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, too?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Harley groans.  "But I don't want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>squish</span>
  </em>
  <span> ya, Pammie-- it was so easy to squish Mistah J…  As soon as I wanted do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm tough enough to resist some of your force, Harley.  To give you a good blanket-warmer-- and a friendly ear who isn't going to be full of Hungers.  And I will make your territory green and good."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you promise  me-- you'll keep your promises.  You tried to keep them to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you kept them so well that none of the debris settled on you.  Now-- keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy releases Harley's forearm; her flexed arm comes out of its clench.  Her supple fingers reach further, tracing over Harley's face.  Grown like the rest of her-- proportional, strong, and amazingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>female</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  As though everything about strength was now defined, in some way, by Harley Quinn-- woman and powerhouse of the changed Earth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You want me, Harley," Ivy repeats, and moans.  "You want me, and I can taste it on the air.  I want you more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>sunshine</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- won't you let me drink, and make me yours?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You promise me this is true, Pammie?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise, Harley," Ivy says firmly.  "I can't lie to you."  She wrinkles her nose.  "No upstate hyena farms with lots of prey to chase after."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley laughs, so much of her pain gone in the sound.  In the motion, head thrown back and giant, round tits wobbling about.  And with the huge pectoral muscles behind them squeezing and clenching and releasing in swift motions matched by her abs below."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy waits for the happy laughter to die down, then strokes her hands back up into her long red mane, primping it about as she squirms sinuously for Harley's delight once more.  "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to go back to the Green, Harley, not until you're gone.  I don't want to just commune with the changed Earth as the Hunters set things to their whim."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lets her fingers fall down from her hair, tracing along her now-sturdy throat, over the slight bulge of her bodybuilder-sized pectorals, and then around her teres, lats, and obliques.  They're fairly big and have almost none of Ivy's fat-equivalent between them and her smooth green skin.   "I need to be with you; to have my roots tie with yours.  A system, made of us." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes shift up and down Harley's nakedness.  From meeting her eyes, to her </span>
  <em>
    <span>gigantic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, mouth-wateringly firm and jiggly breasts, to the muscles all around…  All of it is so beautiful to Ivy, right down towards her decorated muff-- blonde, with that same red and blue making a kind of outline, matching left to left and right to right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's breathing hard, shaking her leaves and everything beneath.  "I want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley; I want to live under the sun, to experience and shepherd life… and I want to be yours, Harley.  Won't you take me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I trust you.  I trust you even if you decide I'm not strong enough to be even </span>
  <em>
    <span>half</span>
  </em>
  <span> a mate to you, Harley, I promise.  If you'll just promise to take care of me and my causes-- whether you have me as Bonded concubine or </span>
  <em>
    <span>slave</span>
  </em>
  <span>--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pammie!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As.  Your.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Slave</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley Quinn.  Just promise me all that-- and I'll take what you give."  Her hands flow from her sides over to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley's</span>
  </em>
  <span> huge breasts.  Daringly, Ivy doesn't wait for Harley's permission.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She just starts to massage those gorgeous, thickly padded titties.  Her fingers and thumbs run over sensitive skin with expert care, making the suddenly flexing-all-over Hunter groan with pleasure.  And making her damp with it too, lower down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wh-what's the… What's the other thing, Pammie?"  Harley isn't stuttering from fear; Ivy knows that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The lust inside my poor Harley must be so terrifying.  I'm sorry I'm having to torment you like this, Harley, but that's the third thing I promise.  I'll find a way to feed all </span>
  </em>
  <span>three</span>
  <em>
    <span> of the Drives that bind.  I promise.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Out loud, she groans, stroking her fingers back and forth over Harley's squishy super-mammaries.  She takes her time, rubbing here and there with a purpose, letting the "soft" weight beneath feel what pleasure Poison Ivy can surrender to it.  Then she brings her hands back up to her own G-cups, beneath the dark red leaves concealing her nips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She flicks at the most prominent leaves.  The ones hiding her big-- for a human-- nubs, and as much of her broad areolae as they can.  She flicks just once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they pop off, painlessly.  Harley gasps, but Ivy just groans, fingering her nipples around.  "They don't hurt, Harley.  Even when they're green, as long as you don't yank too hard at the roots beneath, they're just leaves.  Just leaves.  You can brush away as many of them as you like."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise," Harley says softly.  Now the static in the air is so thick Ivy can barely believe it isn't thundering constantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise that I will take you as my concubine, Poison Ivy."  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "I promise that I will use you-- for lust, and for love.  That I will fuck you, and snuggle you; tease you, and molest you-- and make use of your powers for wherever I set down roots."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She winks.  "Oh, th'teasin', Pammie.  I promise you </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- with love through it all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley isn't quite looking at Ivy; more past her, as though from a script.  "I promise that I'll be good to ya too; that I'll take your causes as nearly dear to my own as you are."  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise I'll do you as little permanent harm as possible, none if I can, and that I'll tend you through whatever regrowin' ya must do, an' I'll never kill ya, except from betrayal.  Even then, I'll take you swift an' merciful."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An important caveat.  People change; and Hunters are now the true 'people' of the changed Earth.  Thank you for thinking ahead, Harley.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise I'll listen to ya."  Harley blushes.  "I'll make you </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> moll," she declares, pumping a fist against her thigh and making Ivy jiggle and shake about.  More leaves fall, just a few.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reaches up-- but grabs Ivy by the throat, pulling her close.  "But I promise you this only if you swear me your loyalty true and deep and </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Poison Ivy-- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>won't</span>
  </em>
  <span> be used again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley--</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mistress-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promise me first, Red.  Then I'll play ya game."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy grits her teeth.  Spring is powerful in this fecund new body, and with the promises of a gorgeous Hunter on her, it's so hard to think of anything else.  But she is promising loyalty…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise, Harley Quinn, that I will be your faithful concubine.  I will advise well, serve well-- and I will give you every delight I know and keep learning them, just to please you.  Just to pleasure you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's breath hits hard again, jostling her rounded, huge breasts against Ivy's body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise I will serve your lusts, and those of any other you bond with, faithfully.  I will seek no lovers without your permission-- and I will use my body with and for</span>
  <em>
    <span> whomever</span>
  </em>
  <span> you wish."  They both turn to look at Croc and the Calculator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whomever.  However. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>ever," Ivy groans, almost a growl of her own.  "You will be my mistress, and I will be your sub.  But I promise this too: I will always be your friend.  I will love you as a person, even when everyone else sees you as a force of nature-- or a monster."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice grows soft.  "I will never abuse your trust, or mock you; I will never seek to control you.  I will be yours for the asking, yours for using.  Loyal unto death, and wherever I can take it beyond."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Power surges.  The world swirls around the pair.  Harley cries out, a mixture of pain and pleasure and satisfaction so great it seems a blasphemy she's not squirting between those potent thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy screams.  She'd been told it would be overwhelming.  She can't imagine how someone who </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a connection to all plant life but wasn't a Hunter could survive this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around her throat, the collar grows in first.  Not a slave; owned but not with an owner.  Love-mate, if subordinate: concubine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels so full.  Like her roots have been in the desert, and the rains have come at last.  Like she's growing, season after season contained in the breathing of Harley Quinn.  Her body shakes and swells and blossoms-- all full of Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No-- more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entire world is now full of Harley Quinn.  Not just her effects on it-- the broken table, the fear and arousal in the eyes of her two slaves.  But in the wind, Harley's touch; in the hum of the neon sign, Harley's laughter; in every reflection, some shadow of Harley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In Ivy's mouth, forever, two tastes-- of Harley's lips… and Harley's pussy.  Ivy hasn't gotten to eat her friend out since the Pulse.  She feels so blessed to know what her mistress' cunny tastes like early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How best to please.  How best to obey.  How best to love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because now, Ivy's fears have vanished in the same puff as Harley's doubts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mistress," Ivy groans.  Three diamonds and a star slowly push themselves out of the woody-smooth circlet around her throat.  Marked-- but the dance is not complete.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My Pammie-- forever," Mistress Harley says softly.  "I need-- I need to touch you.  To feel you."  For all her colossal strength, there's such a ragged edge in Mistress Harley's voice it's almost like she hasn't been fed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I must feed her!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Pammie holds her arms out to her mistress.  Fingers clasp as Pammie's eyes close; she draws her lover and mistress' firm hands down to her suddenly swiftly-shifting sides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pammie shimmies and shakes her flourishing hips from side to side.  Something feels different as she shakes her body about.  She doesn't entirely know what it is, but Pammie likes it, yes she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her leaves fall, shed gratefully, baring her to Mistress Harley's touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels denser; woodier, in places, succulent in others.  Wider hips now, she realizes, wider hips that spread with the dance.  Above them, she briefly has a wasp-waist and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>super</span>
  </em>
  <span>-hourglass figure-- but that fills.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She fills out, so full of Mistress Harley.  Her stomach ripples and curls with her swaying abandon.  The tight tense of each new roll remains, a toned stomach on the edge of a four-pack… soon packing in four neat abdominal double-divisions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An eight-pack, in instants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mistress' hands feel electric on her smooth, taut skin.  Like the simple, gentle caress of those strong fingers is a violet wand, goading her on and on.  Pammie almost orgasms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, as her mistress' palms come together over her tensing belly, just above the shock of red, human-like pubic hair.  So she cums anyway, and abandons herself to pleasure.  Her core's clench becomes the very center of the dance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Growth dance.  The Green pumps slowly into her, entertwined with the power of Mistress Harley.  She's taller with each moment, as her hands move across her own body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her abs don't stop growing, either, to fill the dance with how much Pammie loves her mistress.  Within moments, she's left with a stomach that looks like a cross between a belly dancer's and a body builder's; four has become eight, much like her hips and her breasts rolling along.    She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> full, it seems; her hips' natural sway and abdomen's natural slinkiness has become a continuous dance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pammie's butt and hips end up so rolling and sweet that she looks like she's shaking when she's standing still-- like a pause button on a striptease video.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Quorum of Flowers knew bonding to the Mistress would fill me with her power,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she realizes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The shape they gave me wasn't to entice her; it was to prepare me to </span>
  </em>
  <span>become </span>
  <em>
    <span>what she needs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pammie's shoulders join the dance; join the growth.  What was sturdy on a metahuman scale but slender and lithe before her mistress blossoms and swells like centuries of growth in minutes-- seconds.  Her traps and delts bloom into rugged, smooth-skinned prominences, the traps especially expanding across her back and atop it, anchoring her now-corded neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's not a floral Hunter, not a redwood-- but she feels like the incarnation of old growth forests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between the broader shoulders, her lovely Gs shake over a broader, tougher chest, forever perky melons for her mistress' lips and hands and anything she desires.  Shake, and jiggle-- and as they jiggle, each jiggle seems to hang heavier each time-- yet, none of the firmness is lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gasping and moaning, Pammie reaches across herself, and strokes green fingers up along green flesh (or something like it).  Her eyes roll back in her head when she does; Mistress Harley's fingers are there with her, pushing insistently under her arms and sinking into the lushly padded titflesh.  The truth of the change hits her as her arms hit her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She creams with that truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a good thing she grows her own clothes.  A G-cup bra wouldn't fit those melons any more.  Not by half.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Has a watermelon vine been grafted onto me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, as it always will, Harley's arousal, the jolting, warming, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pushing</span>
  </em>
  <span> feeling of her horniness hits Pammie before even her dominant musk.  By bonding to Harley Quinn, she has opened her heart forevermore to the presence of her mistress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The collar's nice.  The physique?  Bonus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But her mistress </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> her new tits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially since they seem to have grown up a bit closer to eye-height with Pammie gyrating wildly on Mistress Harley's lap.  A full thirty centimeters grown, just over a foot more in height.  Still a foot </span>
  <em>
    <span>less </span>
  </em>
  <span>than her mistress-- but hey, it means Pammie can slowly sink herself lower and lower, until she's straddling more of her mistress' thewy thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers flutter, and her eyes open.  No, Mistress Harley doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> like her new tits.  Though her warm, powerful hands demonstrate her approval there so broadly and so well that Pammie cums again, her juices rolling down her newly-bulging thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands pull up and up, travel past the opposite shoulders.  She's a broad and powerful Pammie now, an angel of muscles to her mistress' muscle-goddess.  It's an incredible feeling, like a full body orgasm set on loop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sets her shaking, bouncing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>squirming</span>
  </em>
  <span> with need.  Her muscles are getting so much bigger and her mistress is getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> much hornier, too.  She whips her shoulderblades down and away, pushing her blossomed breasts into her mistress' hands as she continues to bop from side to side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingertips stroll over lightly flexing triceps, each time she flicks her shoulders up and down or out and back feeling them get just a little bigger.  Just a little tougher.  Her biceps, too, moving in slowly pumping parallel-- and then, all the way up her forearms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the hands themselves.  She's a </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> Pammie now.  Green and dark and red hair whipping wildly about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nowhere near the mass of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunter</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but she'd definitely put poor little Kal-El to shame.  "Your power runs through your Pammie, mistress," she groans.  "You make your Pammie </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up and up, her brawny left arm resting in her crown of flowers while her right extends towards the ceiling.  She even puts a little flex in it, bulging no longer </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely</span>
  </em>
  <span> dwarfed muscles.  "Does your new Pammie please--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Red."  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Red Pammie?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "No-- Poison Ivy," Mistress Harley  insists, and the force of her concern almost makes… Poison Ivy… weep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Remember</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Harley says again, the 'er' losing the 'r' rapidly.  "Remembah, damn you, Red!  Don't make me regret lovin' you!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't regret yet; Ivy can tell.  But horror shivers cold and dry through her limbs, and she swarms close to Harley for warmth.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I would have been a slave if that's what it took, but that's not what she gives me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Warmth, she receives.  Harley kisses Ivy fiercely on full, green lips, wrapping her far brawnier arms around the taut-packed, amazonian plant woman.  Her right hand strokes up under Ivy's red hair, playing with it until her palm comes up at the base of her skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her left runs much lower, fingers clenching at one of Ivy's firm, plump buttocks.  The possessive squeeze makes Ivy's body all but melt with pleasure and contentment; she knows she's safe in these arms.  Harley's tongue, on the other hand...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's tongue makes Ivy's whole body jump one final time.  One last bit of growth, just to please that questing, probing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>claiming</span>
  </em>
  <span> tongue.  The orgasm that accompanies it is just another benefit to being Harley's concubine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kiss lingers like the climax.  Soon, though, Harley breaks it-- Ivy would have been content to kiss forever-- and begins to explore Ivy's new body.  Her fingertips alone make Ivy close her eyes and gasp, a long inhalation that seems to firm and solidify her new muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the shudder that accompanies it inlays definition.  Like Harley's love filled her-- and Harley's lust decorated her with the intricate whorls of a bodybuilder.  Complete with her own secondary layer to match her beloved's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy pants, squirming in Harley's arms.  "You're amazing, Harley."  The 'mistress' is silent, but it's there.  She wriggles closer, carefully squeezing her breasts into as comfortable a snuggle with Harley's as space allows, and hugs her tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're pretty amazing yerself, Red."  Harley caresses her bare body, squeezing the green, chiseled strength; taking a moment to touch the diamonds-and-star "collar" marking.  "Mmm-- and ya feel so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  She flexes her chest, heavier tits squeezing and bouncing Ivy's pair around in squishy abandon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning with the pleasure of it, Ivy uses her hands to return the favor in ways her non-Hunter breasts cannot-- except in the press of nipple into smooth, pale plushness.  Her fingers' new length carry with them no less dexterity, and, in fact, seem to have quite a bit more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, from the sudden flush of red across Harley's cheeks-- down </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> her breasts, in fact-- the sudden pressure of Harley's pleasure across Ivy's mind--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving them both rain forest wet--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Harley's loud groans, Ivy's hands seem to be custom-made to pleasure her beloved, her mistress.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps they are,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks, and smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't just stay with the massive woman's massive mammaries, either; her newly broadened arms swoop out widely, caressing Harley's obliques, her abs, back up attentively along the breasts to marvel at the thickness of her amazing nippless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The musclebound giantess is no less ardent.  Both hands seize onto Ivy's ass, squeezing and fondling the fleshy, jiggly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft</span>
  </em>
  <span> cheeks.  Holding on longingly, only to let them go and feel them bounce back into place, evergreen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She seems just as urgent to drink her fill of Ivy's new body by touch.  Her long, strong fingers walk along Ivy's newly hardened lats on both sides, to the obliques and back-- since the squeezing flex of her gargantuan pecs manages to do quite sufficient boob-to-boob fondling, thank you very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, Harley's coiled, bulging forearms, thicker than Ivy's thighs were the last time she bloomed anew, press in all along Ivy's back.  Her fingertips massage Ivy's traps, rubbing between the shoulderblades and above.  She seems to work in sequence-- relaxation in the back, stimulation in the front, relaxation, stimulation, making Ivy's world dance again, this time in a sort of liquid warmth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy shudders; were it not for her connection to the Green, she could never have withstood it.  Harley's senses, vast and terrible and all-consuming, are shared in a tithe with Ivy.  The pleasure bouncing between them is a positive feedback cycle, touch to touch spreading like the aroused dampness of their thighs.  But throughout it all, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>world</span>
  </em>
  <span> leaks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, Ivy's ability to talk to plants was limited to the room she was in.  Then more; a wing of Arkham had to be denuded to hold her.  When Woodrue, cursed and imprisoned Woodrue, returned to experiment on her </span>
  <em>
    <span>again </span>
  </em>
  <span>and use her as a pawn in his disgusting quest to upset the balance of the Kingdoms, her connection to the Green flourished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless of whether she wanted it to do so or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, as Harley's fingers on her </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span> begin to bring her just as near to a renewed climax as the rub of nerve-laden titflesh from pale to green, it carries with it a vibrational sense of </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Individual air molecules-- from outside the diner.  The smoothness of the last patch of unrusted iron on a bar-- miles away.  The rough discontinuity between the foundations of the building, and the changed Earth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Earth, which does not ban its herald.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it is Harley's turn to gasp.  Ivy leans across her lover's corded throat, kissing hungrily at it.  The sense of the Green (and the Melt, beyond) had been shared at the moment of the bonding, of course.  But to a being who thinks centuries in a second like the Hunter Harley Quinn, it's easy to develop the habits of a lifetime in a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's fingers clutch, holding on to Ivy for support as Ivy writhes in her lap.  Ivy's hands rub over the colossal, comforting strength beneath Harley's shoulderblades, easing her through the sudden, shared sense.  "Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pammie</span>
  </em>
  <span>," she whispers again, and Ivy smiles, secretly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You may insist I still be Poison Ivy, but you have made me your Pammie, forever…  Mistress.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's tongue makes lurid little strokes along Harley's neck, teasing the new muscles and tasting the strength of her groans.  Her nails rake across the surface of that powerful back, unable to do anything more than change the sensation.  That is enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because the Green opens its gates to Harley Quinn; lets her feel the health and location and </span>
  <em>
    <span>surroundings</span>
  </em>
  <span> of plants.  With the Melt now reigning Imperial over all the old Kingdoms, even the Black's place in the cycle is open to Ivy-- and through Ivy, Harley.  Useless, some might say-- with a Hunter, who can see down to the very molecules of a plant kilometers and understand all their meanings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not through earth.  The Green may have to take the servant's entrance to the Melt, but it is an entrance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wherever roots sink deep, wherever vines have been-- wherever soil is </span>
  <em>
    <span>soil</span>
  </em>
  <span>, rich with the eternal cycles of growth and decay-- there, Harley Quinn, a middling Hunter, able to ruin those who can break other worlds but perhaps would sweat fighting those who stifle stars, has a reach that is incomparable save to the very greatest of the great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ones who are called Outliers, and will make of themselves the strongest queens among and of muscle goddesses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there are some other, more </span>
  <em>
    <span>specialized</span>
  </em>
  <span> uses besides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Ivy, switch that she is, plays a little naughty with her bondmate.  She sends a pulse through the living plants surrounding them.  Nothing major, just a light dancing here and there, a sleepy wakeup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley groans.  "Aw, Red, ya got about a thousand years ta stop doin' that-- an' about a second to start doin' </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> with it."  Ivy, eyes wide, complies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she leans back from Harley, she takes a new position.  Not far enough back to remove the carefully docked squish of their breasts, but enough to let her now-brawny arms hold and encircle them as well.  Then she flexes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the flex, she makes the plants dance like her biceps do.  The hardened muscles barely move Harley's powerful breasts, squeezing and rubbing desperately against them.  As her upper arms swell and dwarf a similarly tall weightlifter's </span>
  <em>
    <span>thighs</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the plants around them all squirm and shift and grow for Harley's new sense to drink them in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Red!" Harley shudders, starting to squirm her groin over the seat.  Ivy's eyes roll back in her head; her mistress' pleasure is her own, after all, and it's hard for Ivy to tell the difference between her pussy growing moist in anticipation of being used-- or Harley's pussy clenching  in response to all the stimuli.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let me please you, my love, my Mistress, my Harley," she groans.  "Let me pleasure you…"  She winks, and kisses Harley lightly on the lips.  "And bask in your </span>
  <em>
    <span>heat</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Forevah," Harley agrees, accent even thicker now.  Her harsh strength is gentle with Ivy, until Ivy pouts enough and slows the dance of the Green.  Eyes twinkling, Harley gives her the spanking she so richly desires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes!" she hisses, squirming her ass back against Harley's hand.  Both of them feel the squirm of millions of plants, legions of exotic dancers for Harley's temporary court.  Shuddering, Ivy grinds her tush back against Harley's hand, and doesn't have to beg twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Said I wanted t'make your ass as red as your hair," Harley whispers, and she has little mercy for either of Ivy's cheeks.  The more she spanks, the more it stings, the more Ivy dances their little part of the biome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The more Ivy's hands massaging Harley's breasts becomes an uncontrollable sensation of pure sexual ecstasy.  In moments, Harley climaxes, her hands squeezing Ivy's ass so hard the smaller musclewoman yelps.  Yelps, and joins her beloved in orgasm yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feedback of pleasure and pain to pleasure and pain is such that it takes them no small amount of time to settle out of the orgasm.  Groaning happily, Ivy whirls her denuded form around in Harley's tightly hugging arms, feeling nearly ready to cum again just from how </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span> her mistress, her lover is.  She reaches up to stroke her broadened hand over Harley's cheek, and her lover eagerly follows it back down to kiss Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share their lips, and the taste of each other, through the pulsating link, and Harley shares in Ivy's stinging ass, grinding aggressively over Harley's rippling, powerful thighs.  Their mouths are almost as wet with saliva shared as their lower lips with muskier fluids, and Ivy's eyes widen, her whole body shuddering with the awareness of Harley's touch, and touching.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Green and Melt, Harley!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she moans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah-- an' a good pattymelt to you, too, Pammie.  I shouldn'a let you make me send the staff home."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy crinkles her nose.  "Didn't you once tell me being a good moll meant taking care of </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harley Quinn?"  As Harley grins, one side of her mouth curling broader than the other, Ivy nods at the remaining pair.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley grins broadly, feeling the wickedness in Ivy's humor.  "Got somethin' t'say, Poison Ivy?" she purrs, and squeezes Ivy's thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy looks speculatively at Waylon for a moment.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She'll want hierarchies; strength is one of the five virtues the Quorum foresees</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  "Mmm, just that if I'm going to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> moll, I need to know your mooks, don't I?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I sure did."  Harley sighs, big chest bobbing against Ivy deliciously.  "An' more about their dental habits than </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> needed to know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caressing her fingers over Harley's big breasts and big pecs alike, Ivy kisses her cheek again.  "So tell me about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>staff</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then.  How'd you pick up </span>
  <em>
    <span>Waylon Jones?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I was heading back to here from the Green after I saw you… emancipate yourself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well…"  Harley smirks at Killer Croc.  "Time ta give me </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> song and dance… Thriller Cock."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon stirs, staring at Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At his owner.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Released from something a little like torpor and a lot like dreaming, the monstrous Waylon Jones is unleashed upon Arkham Asylum.  Degenerating in mind the way he has grown in body has changed Killer Croc from a driven, dedicated thinker to a bestial engine of destruction, with a little bit of cannibalism on the side.  Hush's vile tinkering has brought him to this, and though Arkham keeps him very well fed indeed...</p><p>There's something special about the blood and flesh of his former species.</p><p>But he has been unleashed on Pulse Night, and he has no time for that.  Just one man's blood calls to him.  Even its intoxicating demand is just a cover from a wickeder, stronger scent beneath.</p><p>Having dispatched with her abusive and ungrateful boyfriend, Harley Quinn wants more to play with.  More to amuse the Drives tickling at her famously fickle fancy.  And out of the darkness has crept Killer Croc.</p><p>Who's only two inches shorter than her, if much, much skinnier... and who regenerates when damaged.  Her smile is a warning, but unlike the scent, it doesn't reach him until it's too late.</p><p>Like many another Hunter tonight, Harley is pretty sure that a "hard" man is good to beat.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Earlier That Night</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon Jones is not skin and bones, though he is-- for a cannibal-- remarkably lean.  Lean, and green, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean, the once-crime boss, once-gator wrestler/freak show star, is two point two-six centimeters tall, and almost all of it is heavy bone, powerful muscle, and redundant organs that regrow faster than most men regrow hair.  In their twenties.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tail and snout are new. Terrible strength and speed that isn't purely from his muscles' physiology alone.  A terrible, growling hunger for meat, never satisfied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It clouds him.  It makes him react faster, whipcrack fast, but it clouds him.  Makes it so hard to think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes he runs down on all four limbs, tail waving behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He used to be clever, he knows that.  He used to be smart, far smarter than what the cruel normie marks would believe, let alone the assholes running the show.  That all changed when Hush took him from a strong, scaley, tall, green man with sharp teeth, into a befanged, ophidian predator, hulking in size but deceptively fast-- with fangs and claws to match.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc doesn't know any more if Hush </span>
  <em>
    <span>intended</span>
  </em>
  <span> him to lose his intellect.  It makes him easier to fool.  But it's gone, with more and more experience and planning replaced by savage cunning and feral instinct.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These days, if the Bat needs to knock him out?  It's Bat-splosives to the chest; a chest big enough for any two NFL linebackers that pumps power out to arms that can rip bank vault doors off their hinges.  He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>muscle</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he knows it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc has had some short moments of peace in his life, even after the damn fool decision to come to Gotham and try to take over the underworld.  As the protector of a bunch of sewers-dwelling homeless-- washed away in a city maintenance </span>
  <em>
    <span>flush</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  As an animal, or near enough, living in the Louisiana swamps under the protection of Swamp Thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hush found him there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Croc wishes he was better at staying away.  He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wishes he was better at finding places to be lost and sticking to them.  And he really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wishes he didn't find human flesh so appetizing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially with fresh blood in the offing.  And there's such a strong taste of it on the air that he's drooling through his fangs.  More than usual, even.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little under an hour ago, Waylon was woken up out of a sound sleep by a -- something.  A something so great and terrible it felt like when Hush's fucking virus ripped him out of communion with the swamp </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- only in reverse.  And with at least ten times the engine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This year, they have to keep him low in Arkham, and that's probably why no one else came to settle an old score or something.  Despite the worries about him escaping, his skin and body just don't rest well out of the water, and at his size, it was easier just to use a blocked-off set of his old tunnels, cave-in most of them and make sure the rest were piped real small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon didn't mind.  It was almost like the swamp.  When the water was thick, and full of stagnant life, he slept so much better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when he was awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the blast hit.  Moments later-- something else.  The power cut to his cell and the circulators.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not sure what the... whatever did to most people; he didn't wake up for some time after.  He's not sure how long.  Probably no more than ten, by what signs he has found.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There aren't a lot of his cohorts around right now-- much less ones willing to come in arm's reach of Killer Croc.  It's not like he doesn't understand, either.  Panicked by the sudden lack of white noise and the change in the water, he'd gone berserk, tearing through his cell far faster than he might have under even his new normal conditions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's been stalking, slow but stealthy despite his size, through Arkham since he got up.  People are screaming, running around, and talking about the end of the world.  There are great holes through the building, large enough for Waylon himself to pass through without having to hunch over at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long limbs, thick with strength and smooth with scale.  Not a tyrannosaurus shrunk for all he's strong enough to wrestle </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> now.  No, green upon green sliding through shadows, mottled shades-- silent, and when he retracts his claws, he leaves almost no trace of his passage for the eye to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He should have left.  They didn't find all his tunnels.  Not even the Bat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there's something fascinating in here, and something </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird</span>
  </em>
  <span> out there.  The guards are all dead, or hiding in the panic room.  None of the TVs are on.  None of the office computers, either, even though Waylon isn't sure he can still use a keyboard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A remote, he can at least fumble with his six-centimeter long claws, eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some wag wrote "SHE RISES" on the broken TV screen in the softie wing.  Neck aching and tail sliding off to the side, he pulled himself up to his full height to look at it.  His broad, powerful arm made a good enough rest as his deadly claws sank into the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His spine isn't always comfortable with being straight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there is nothing to it he can taste, and probably never had been; there aren't even that many female smells around in the first place.  Softies doesn't just stand for people less lethally tough than Waylon Jones.  Here, it means the people who were the usual kind of insane-- more abused and taken advantage of than actual dangers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some of them don't even have silverware-- not because they'd use it to bloody intent, but because they'd hurt themselves.  For many, loud noises are a reason to panic and freeze, not look for an advantage.  Some of them can't stand reflections or the touch of plastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Food, in other words, for Killer Croc.  Most of them not even much more than a snap of the jaws away.  He's got thicker wrists than some of the softie's necks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tail lashes in and out in sweeping S-curves, a cursive of the body.  Instinctively, he keeps it away from upturned furniture and still-standing desks alike.  The power's not working right-- at least one set of generators and its backups has to be down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's okay.  That means that his dark green hide blends in, and there are few lights to reflect off the red of his eyes.  The softies should have been cowering, whimpering-- noisy and slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Food</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they are all gone, too.  He leans low, tilting his head slightly to the side and inhaling deeply again.  Panic in their sweat; tracks, close together except a single, broad-strided set, confident and purposeful, going straight forward into the mass, then back out with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stampeded early on, in other words, when he was still recovering from the blast.  Something or someone crashed </span>
  <em>
    <span>into</span>
  </em>
  <span> Arkham to get to them.  He found some blood around there, too, but little-- splatters.  No </span>
  <em>
    <span>meat</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to force himself up.  Broad, broad shoulders tense, especially the shoulder blades, surrounding a flexible spine with fins marking its progress to his tail.  It tries to keep him horizontal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Close to the earth.  Brawny power trembles under those smooth, slightly damp scales, and his tongue flicks out.  He almost crashes his head into the ceiling, jerking himself upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Have to.  I'm not… I'm not licking scraps from the floor like a beast!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Two meters and a bit more than a quarter past that, when he can get bipedal, and rippling with disciplined power from before the acceleration of his mutation.  Add to that a constant, predatorial focus on moving and improving afterwards.  He won't win any bodybuilding contests, but-- presuming he could be convinced not to eat them-- he's more than big enough (and strong enough) to carry three or four weightlifting champs along with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mass.  Claws.  Fangs.  Flicking tongue and flicking tail.  The constant search for food.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I may </span>
  </em>
  <span>be</span>
  <em>
    <span> a beast, but I'm a beast that can still think, damnit!  </span>
  </em>
  <span>He forces himself further in and past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd been circling Arkham's outer wings for quite a while when it happened.  Investigated the not-quite-a-den slowly.  The panic rooms and barrack-hardpoints may have been occupied, but other than that-- no one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, about ten or so minutes ago, there was an immense howl.  Deep and rich but with a curious lilt to it that made Waylon think </span>
  <em>
    <span>female</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Man or woman or whatever hasn't mattered much to him for a while now, not for food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that howl… it shook Arkham.  The sound of it made his whole body quake.  Quake, and freeze, like each shiver was turning him to ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They call him an atavism, regressing in part to a common reptilian ancestor.  That has always seemed </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span> to Waylon.  He's really not that bright these days, but he's pretty sure that most bipedal things that are even </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span> to reptiles are birds, or dinosaurs, or were.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe there's something in those crazy rumors about reptile people?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever that sound was, it made </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> his ancestral memories cower and whine.  His entire body tried to flex at once, to tighten and clench and curl up in a ball in some dark hole.  It made his claws, hands and feet alike, tear into the surroundings while his big, long head swung from side to side, opposite his tail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear of it burned through Killer Croc.  But longing, too.  Like-- like he was a feral puppy grown to a drooling massive alley mutt, and then he heard a human cry out in agony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yearning to go see, knowing it's stupid.  And then the smell hit him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Blood.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood and flesh and plenty of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's something else about the whole scent, though.  Something unfamiliarly familiar.  Waylon wishes he wasn't so </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes it so hard to think.  So hard to even fight the urge to just run towards where he places the howl.  So hard not to just open his jaws wide and run to the feast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tasting that meat on the air made his long tongue curl out, his huge shoulders hunch in, and his little-attended cock stiffen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mildly disturbing, that.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't fuck corpses, or nothin'.  There's something else about that smell.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc doesn't really get to date much, these days.  To be honest, he really has never even found female "special" agents of KOBRA attractive anymore; he sometimes wondered if Hush's virus had stifled more than his thinking head.  When he can remember enough to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having that part of him wake up and start making its decision-making priorities clear is not a welcome addition to the fog in his mind.  It's still better, though.  Than those horrified moments, contemplating mind and personality lost to the virus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But much more often, Waylon just wants to eat and he doesn't care why.  His limbs are curling with the hunger for it, his thickly-built arms reaching out, forcing him lower and lower to the ground.  Soon, arms that would be called apelike were it not for the scales are set to be more like legs, his claws bracing him, ready for a leap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not like Arkham doesn't feed him.  They're not </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He gets the protein and the calories and the minerals he needs.  He doesn't feel quite so berserk when they do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But oh, this taste-- just the scent of freshly killed meat and delicious otherness has Waylon almost careless.  Almost.  He's been winding his way through the random-seeming holes in buildings, using blocky furniture, rubble, and patience to avoid detection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives up the fight to return to bipedal, and just focuses on keeping his claws back as far as he can.  A few random strikes here and there, some property damage-- that doesn't tell people too much.  But if he runs with all fours and his claws on, they'll know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn't his swamp, ready to fill back in after him, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone's gone that he can see. Holed up or bugged out like he should be.  But he stays silent, sneaky, sinuous despite his heft.  He knows better than to treat quiet and blood as safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because this could be any of them.  Any of the killer crazies, the ones, big or small, who are always dangerous.  He's being pulled along by his nose, but he still knows better than to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon knows very well that size doesn't always mean strength, let alone danger, after all; he remembers being underestimated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's getting closer to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>serious</span>
  </em>
  <span> crazy wing.  Him, when he wasn't-- this.  Clayface.  Scarecrow.  The Joker.  Two-Face.  The Riddler earned his way in the hard way.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who saw that one coming?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A long tongue licks over his sharp fangs, then curls carefully back over his lips.  The scent is stronger now.  So is the scent of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wing is mostly empty already.  There's a reason Batman, the city, Arkham-- everyone-- puts serious layers on it.  The instant things go to pot, everyone who isn't catatonic or sleeping knows to get running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, the suddenly gargantuan, multi-limbed monstrosity might be the guy whose tray you stole and whose poetry you insulted four nights ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Only takes… once.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Abruptly, tantalizing scent or not, Waylon's barely conscious mind is filled with a panic urge to leave-- now.  No; his muzzle shifts, nostrils flaring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A long, heavy breath shudders out, and his tongue twists, adding its brush to the picture his inhuman senses paint for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent itself is what's panicking him.  Turning him on, guiding him on.  Terrifying him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the blood that makes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to stay, to feast on delicacies generally banned from Arkham.  Even sweet little Astrid Arkham, grown into a dazzling Arkham Knight--  even the maniacs' champion wouldn't stomach that kind of indulgence.  The other scent, the sweeter, tangier one mixed in with the blood and still-warm flesh--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's demanding he travel on.  It makes his limbs lock, huge bulges slapping into each other.  His tail goes out rigid behind, and his cock yells just as loudly that he follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc grunts.  His silence is nearly broken when he flexes his claws-- hands and feet, scraping lightly against concrete and metal.  His muzzle is nearly closed, breath coming out in short pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Muscles tremble along long, broad-framed limbs again.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'll… I'll follow it in.  Just stay sneaky.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales a bit, then sharply, quickly inhales, dragging more of the taste into his massive chest, lungs puffing out hard.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, that's it.  Don't fight yourself too hard-- but be careful</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon's body agrees to the truce.  His claws retract, and he shifts nearly upright, a dark, ominous presence in the powerless halls.  Then forward he goes, far lighter than his three hundred and eleven kilograms suggests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't take him long.  There's another heavy-sounding set of breathing ahead.  The smells are thicker here-- less corridors, more chokepoints, and so many trails crisscross.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The meat smell is so thick it should be overpowering.  At least a full body.  But the other scent has grown stronger as well, and it makes him drool, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, as he starts to turn a corner, he realizes what smell is </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Or… had been missing, from the trails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>The worst of them all.  The one even Killer Croc fears to cross-- not without serious backing, anyway.  The Joker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's so shocked as he recognizes the scent that he keeps moving forward incautiously.  Almost scrambles forward to see, to confirm what he can't believe.  The Joker's trail </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's been with him the whole time.  The meat, calling him in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His blood?  Is he setting me up here?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon's senses ripple, his instincts reacting to his fear and bringing him to a halt.  The drool from his jaw becomes an instant hazard, to be lapped up before it can possibly reveal his presence.  The other scent, the one that sets </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> parts of him drooling, sends alternative commands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, locked between hunger, fear, lust, and the last, sad remnants of the man he used to be, he can do nothing.  Hundreds of kilograms of meat himself, solid, powerful muscle-- under dense hide that can repel a Venom-enhanced Bane and remains pressurized into the ocean depths, and he can do nothing but crouch by the corner that leads down to that </span>
  <em>
    <span>scent</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crouch, and quiver, muscles locking against each other.  He doesn't fight the urge to send himself down to the floor, wrapping his arms and tail around his knees.  If it's some perverted version of Joker Gas, he's dead (or whatever) already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Red eyes stretched wide open, he rocks back and forth as quietly as he can, until he hears the voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C'mon.  Ain't foolin' nobody."  It's not anyone's idea of a siren's song, there is that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harsh-accented, deep and almost melodic in places, but snippy and almost staccato-- just not enough words to bring her voice up to machinegun speed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows the voice, but it's too deep.  Harley Quinn.  One of the ones who tried to break the atavism-- before the Joker broke her.  Nearly as crazy as her man, but more athletic-- and a better planner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her scent is the one that demands.  Somehow, so does her voice.  It's so Brooklyn he's almost surprised there isn't also the smell of sycamore trees and pizza.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it cracks on him like a whip, and that, Waylon does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> want.  Whatever she and the Joker have done, he wants out.  Now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Forcing himself slowly to turn, potent body trembling, he brushes his muzzle near the wall.  His palms press against it as his legs lock and drool trickles past his fangs.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Joker gas mixed with Scarecrow?  I can't-- this is so…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come oveh here, Waylon.  Don't make me come getcha.  Ya won't like it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The threat is absurd on the face of it, and it snaps Killer Croc's bolt.  This is Harley Quinn-- the hammer may hurt, but it doesn't crack bank vaults open like eggs.  He doesn't want to get involved, but he's not going to be threatened by the Joker's demented pixie!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His teeth snap and he's around the corner in an instant.  It's a wide-open, brightly lit area; the Joker can sleep on his front.  No one is going to take a risk they miss something in the shadows.  A smooth, rounded plasteel wall; the inside covered in more traditional padding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's all rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>open</span>
  </em>
  <span> now, the plasteel and one of the dividing walls rubble, but he barely has time to notice that.  As he turns the corner, his body instinctively rises to a three-quarters stance, claws out and thick arms wide.  Green-scaled thickness pumps out over weightlifter-style stocky, powerful legs, and he crouches as though to leap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His vision is clouded by anger and pride.  Further goaded by his reflexive reaction to that enticing, demanding scent, he's working on nearly full-auto.  It's a miracle he's able to make words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not until </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> he roars, "I'm Killer Croc!  You don't talk to me like that!" that he sees her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sees why her voice is deeper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> too.  The Joker.  What's left of him, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime, a psycho's psycho who has even managed to become emperor of all reality just based on sheer crazy-- is dead.  Almost unrecognizable, too, draped across the lap of a rather unhappy Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who, based on the blood and placement, almost certainly did the deed herself.  Bodily.  But his fearful mind and his instinctive paranoia keep getting drawn back to the ruin made of the Joker's body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon can barely tell it's him at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In many ways, it's just the purple, green, and white suit, and the length of him that's visually the Joker.  Usually, in the midst of all the blood and death, unless he's gone for </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the knife with Batman, he's still clean, the clash of his chaotic garment never marred by red or powder burns or anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he's a mess, a gory, bloody, </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken</span>
  </em>
  <span> mess, his shoulders all but crashed together and his spine and hips at unnatural angles.  Waylon, no stranger to breaking men with his bare arms-- what a gator can take, most men cannot-- is actually horrified.  At least… the man in him is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially given how strong the musk of sex is here.  Female sex, female orgasms-- and present female horniness.  Perhaps a bit of the often bitter tang of male cum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless of how little gender matters to him these days, he doesn't really want to think about Joker-cum.  And how horny she is with his body, dead in her lap… Well, he just does his best to concentrate on that to keep from drooling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The beast is just hungry.  But… it's cautious, too.  Moments ago, he'd have lunged right towards the source of the meat smell and tried to take a chomp out of the breathing meat, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was before he saw a Harley Quinn abruptly grown to </span>
  <em>
    <span>two inches taller than him</span>
  </em>
  <span>… and much broader proportionally in the shoulder, in chest depth-- even her pale-skinned, brawn-packed arms look to be in decent competition with his stocky </span>
  <em>
    <span>legs</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The obvious power sculpted into her curled legs, barely visible beneath the slumped corpse, make his tail all but coil around his legs, but he refuses to back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She called me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Killer Croc thinks, taut chest puffing out.  The flickering light dances over her ambivalent face, and his mottled scales, illuminating every muscle under his smooth hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still isn't half as big as the power of her pecs, but he doesn't let that bother him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or warn him.</span>
  <em>
    <span>  Time to remind her that drugged up strength doesn't mean sure victory.  No matter what she was able to do to her "Pudding" or whatever.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But before he can speak, Harley busts out laughing.  "Aw, gonna jump scare at me, big guy?" she snorts, pushing the Joker from her lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ignores the sickening crunch, and he has to wonder just how bad this new batch of Venom or Titan or </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span> really is.  All she does is flap a hand in his direction and laugh dismissively, "Fuck, but don't you look ridiculous with ya little chicken wings all raised'n'sht."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tail lashes back and forth in outrage, but his tongue has to lash out to stroke drool away from the corner of his muzzle nonetheless.  He hopes she'll notice the sharpness of the fangs and just let this go.  The predator in him knows not to risk what might even be a close to equal confrontation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley notices, alright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks.  "And ya l'il Killer all-a wagglin' in th'direction of what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> want."  Since even after the laughter ceases, the lush, firm curves of her tits keeps rolling and bouncing on, Waylon is hard-pressed to dispute her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially not with his "little" Killer suddenly throbbing and waving from his groin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley, of course, waves back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his further astonishment and outrage, she then raises her hands high above her head, clearly to mock him.  Except instead of the somewhat practical threat display, her long arms are just flat straight up, coming together at the wrists, high above her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's hands sort of hang limply to the sides, and she makes a low, deep rumble-- just to say, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grar!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  Not a growl-- more or less pronouncing it as a word.  In short, a complete lack of respect, despite the fact that she's still sitting, he's standing, and he has far more experience fighting with super-strength.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc's blood boils, warming up far faster than the reptile he resembles.  His tail slaps around faster and faster and his lips pull back from his teeth.  But he does not pounce; he does not even roar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when she begins to laugh so hard her impossibly succulent and huge breasts-- larger than both of their heads, combined, apiece!-- shake and bounce about like they're in an earthquake.  With her arms still raised straight and flush above her head!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In part, that's because the arms in question are… rather intimidating.  Harley isn't flexing them at all-- maybe a little tightness around the triceps-- but the intricate definition and huge prominences of the muscles of her </span>
  <em>
    <span>forearms</span>
  </em>
  <span> alone stands out like watching the Atom Smasher grow.  The barrel-like immensity of her upper arms is even worse, covered in rippling, striated lengths and heft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention how close to the ceiling they come, even with her just sitting there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without even so much as a curled fist, he's uncomfortably aware that the immense girth of those upper arms possibly competes with how big his are </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, tensing with threat display.  Possibly bigger than if he flexed.  And both arms are covered with additional musculature, far more than the secondary overlap layers of his own, meta-empowered flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of it is the breadth of her chest.  Waylon is used to looming, and since he's standing and the freaky moll is sitting, he could be said to arguably be the loom-ier.  But he's even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> uncomfortably aware that he honestly looks athletic, even lithe compared to her blood-splattered torso.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And those breasts.  The lumbering Croc's remnant consciousness is unaware of it, but whenever Harley sets the superbly shapely immensity of her mammaries, he involuntarily takes a step forward.  Each step leaves an obscene trail in his wake, his fat shaft already drooling precum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the beast inside him knows is that it is suddenly horny, definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but this… this is not a creature to be challenged lightly.  Much of him wants to flee, but none of him wants to turn his back on her.  His tail lashes back and forth, struggling to escape the hold of his swirling emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon has always been a hard man, even before Hush's virus made him a beast with the memory of a man.  But now, despite the hardness of his erection and the rage in him, he knows where the real path of hardness lies.  So shaking his head and snapping his jaws at her, he starts to force himself to move backwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One clawed foot after one clawed foot.  Arms lowering down.  The mirth snaps off her face, and his eyes go wide as her face flares into a far-fiercer scowl than his befanged maw ever managed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's snarl freezes him even before he registers the word, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  Slowly, she rises to her feet.  The predator in him is stuck half-cringed, half-lustful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It recognizes a superior predator, a superior </span>
  <em>
    <span>female</span>
  </em>
  <span> predator-- and the interest her immense nipples are showing.  That tantalizing musk whips him too, and his eyes are forced open wide.  Not just at the raw sexuality of her, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not even the </span>
  <em>
    <span>power</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc feels ridiculous.  He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> in fact, frozen, with one leg up off the ground, and only his long, scything tail is keeping him balanced.  The quirk in Harley's left brow doesn't help any more than the immediately smug grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's like she's staring right at his cock, bobbing along with his nuts with the rest of him still, without her eyes ever leaving his.  Meanwhile, his eyes search frantically over her, unable to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's frame, just for itself, was intimidating-- and mouthwatering-- enough just sitting.  Unfolding those death-marked and deadly graceful powerhouse legs is an exercise in attraction and awe alike, the movement making the crisp lines of definition bulge and dance in miniature display paralleling the overall motion and strength.  And not really much </span>
  <em>
    <span>miniature</span>
  </em>
  <span>, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You'd think the threat of her kip-up would be enough to let him stop standing like a-- well, chicken caught mid-flap.  The snarl still holds.  So he does, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing her curvy legs scythe out like that really emphasizes that the Joker is barely taller and definitely skinnier than just one musclebound leg of Harley's.  Especially now that he looks very painfully compacted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon can't help but let his tongue whip and lick around as fast as his tail lashes while he otherwise stays haplessly frozen mid-air.  The smooth scales over his chest don't show abs the way most hardbody types do-- they're built for power only, nothing of sculpting.  But he feels positively tubby, his gut sucking in reflexively as he watches her eight-pack clench and shift along with her obliques to better writhe her around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's hips and the curviness of her legs have always been one of the first things people notice about her anyway, and whatever new superdrug she's pumped on seems only to have emphasized that.  He was never stupid enough to underestimate the power of her kick or the deadly possibilities of a body grapple.  Now, just thinking the </span>
  <em>
    <span>word</span>
  </em>
  <span> scissors-- especially with the bloody ruin of the Joker-- makes him tremble, tottering about on one leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No!" he snaps, literally, his great teeth clashing together.  He teeters, muscles locking against each other in painful half-spasm.  Sweat trickles between scales, a hateful reminder of his bastard half-class status between </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mammalia</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reptilia</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley makes it to her feet before he can force himself to stand rather than wobble about.  The easy, agile twist of her incredibly broad shoulders seems as smug and disdainful as her expression.  Not to mention the swift pump of musculature across arms he's now sure are both broader than his legs, moving in an odd parallel to the bounce of her blonde pigtails.  Especially the dyed tips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes Waylon burn with jealousy.  Even since before he had his own run-in with biochemistry gone bad, he's always hated people who looked to drugs and mad scientists to match or exceed what a scrawny, skinny, scale-skinned boy had forced into himself through discipline and anger.  No, not just jealousy.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shame</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Heat flares through his face and neck that has nothing to do with the eye-catching wobble and jiggle of her positively enormous chest, save perhaps the barrel behind the jugs.  Waylon doesn't feel like all of his lifelong work and struggle are just disrespected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the face-- and muscles-- of Harley Quinn, he sees all the pain and struggle and exercise and sacrifice made worthless.  Pointless-- the stupid flailing of a stupid boy who'll never match the feminine power looming over him.  As beautiful as her intense combination of curves and development is, they hammer at his self-worth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Making the endless push-ups and working with crude, improvised weights, let alone the gator wrestling into fool's wasteful self-indulgence.  Killer Croc feels so small, despite barely being two inches shorter-- and surely not that much skinnier in the shoulders?  The worst of it is-- he can't even truly bring himself to hate her, just resent her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, body trembling, he does force that leg back down, claws shattering the smooth flooring work below.  Harley claps for him vigorously, bouncing in place and shaking her heavy knockers about like pompoms.  Palms slap palms and she makes a noise that's so high it makes his ears ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snaps his jaws at her again.  The man in him, for once, is angrier than the beast, which just wants him to roll over on his back-- for many reasons.  So he leans on a classic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>"You get </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> warning, Quinn!" he snarls at her.  "Don't mess with Killer Croc!"</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harley Quinn has been reeling Waylon Jones in since he awoke on Pulse Night.  The transformation into Hunter muscle goddess was not a thing of flesh and bone alone; the mind, perceptions, even social preeminence and a thousand other things that make up what it means to be a person, these all transcend,  if not so much as strength and toughness.  She has become a power...</p><p>And the man called "Killer" Croc is now her prey.  Enraged by her disdain and his own wounded self-image, he swarms to attack her.  At her command.</p><p>There's nothing he can do.  The lightest touch of her hand is agony to him; even her tongue dominates his, unafraid of his fangs.  She wants him, all of him, and she's going to be beating him until she gets it.</p><p>Not just the body.  His mind, too, and his emotions, she hammers and flays, tearing apart the man and beast inside Killer Croc as she works to alter decades of hardened personality.</p><p>It takes her minutes, not even an hour.  And when she collars him by bending alloyed steel so strong even he can barely scratch it...  He's ready.</p><p>But he's still got to deal with her... humor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Drawn by the smell of blood-- of human meat, irresistible to the mutated wretch he has become-- Waylon Jones, the man called Killer Croc, has been drawn to the very center of Arkham.  Well… not by blood alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tangy scent, alluring in its way but also demanding, struck at him as he investigated the ruins of Arkham in the wake of the Pulse.  It seemed to poison or drug his consciousness; in several places, he ran on all fours like a beast.  His cock was as hard as his scales the whole way in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, he found Harley Quinn, grown into a titanic two point three-one meter tall colossus.  His own ophidian, atavistic metamorphosis has left him with quite a bevy of powerful muscle mass on top of that he worked out every day for decades, even in prison or Arkham.  Not only is she taller than him, the former head henchwoman is more </span>
  <em>
    <span>built</span>
  </em>
  <span> in every single way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More muscular, more development and definition, more breadth-- more everything.  Even his cock, long and hard to match his enlarged body, feels only barely adequate to that lascivious stare of hers.  He feels envious and bitter-- and small in ways he never felt before, not even when Bane took him apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sick of her taunting and desperate for a way out of this without a fight that could wound him and spike his escape attempt before it starts, Waylon roars at her, reminding her not to mess with Killer Croc.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clapping stops at least.  But not because of flinching, or anything like that.  She just rolls her eyes, and slams her powerful shoulder left while her lusciously-padded hips sway out to the right, slapping her palm down on the juiciest part of that right hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Drumming her fingers slowly on the bouncing plushness, she shifts her jaw out to the right and silently shakes her head.  Like a disappointed teacher.  "Really?" Harley sniffs.  "Really?  Does that </span>
  <em>
    <span>evah</span>
  </em>
  <span> work?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spluttering, Waylon is about to push himself away further when she shakes her head again.  "Don't even think about leavin' me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Waylon</span>
  </em>
  <span>," she hisses, and suddenly, three hundred and eleven kilograms of Croc are stuck fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only reason I didn't go out and grab me some tail right out is I had… things to think about."  The suggestion that Harley knew she was reeling him-- like he was Killer Cod and not Killer Croc-- is disturbing enough.  The harsh, angular pull of her lips is in the shape of a smile, but no more a true grin than the Joker's own approximations of mirth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>through</span>
  </em>
  <span> with waitin' on other people.  The way I see it-- I was always too nice, to any of you.  A coupla ya deserved it.  Maybe even just the one.  The rest…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her body straightens, his tail curling from side to side in time with the sudden bounce of her hips and endless, rolling waves of her majestic mammary mountains.  His cock throbs in time with it too, right up until she brings one sledgehammer of a fist up into the palm of her other hand and pops the knuckles, one after another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beast and man struggle for dominance.  The beast wants to fight to impress the beautiful monster; the man wants to warn her off.  They're both astonished by the result of that thunderclap knuckle-cracking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The steel-hard plastic left in the window cracks, spiderwebs, and then finally shatters as she's moving between her ring and pinkie finger.  She pops it anyway, rattling the almost gravel-like remnants.  Then she beams at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>That's</span>
  </em>
  <span> how ya do it, Waylon," Harley tells him, her smile almost maternal under the eye-burning fluorescent light.  "I mean, you're frozen stiff all over."  Her eyebrow rises salaciously, and for a moment, he wants to surrender to the… smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shreds of cunning in him are gibbering now.  This is just too much.  Too much power, too sudden, too much lushness.  It's like the fools in one of those old movies who take the wrong turn and end up in some stereotypical sultan's harem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why do they stay?  Why do they not flee the moment the metal on the trap glints at them, even if it's surrounded by warm, round flesh?  Waylon wants to flee, even while the horny, hungry part of him wants to give in to that smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the fusion of his instincts and his memories takes him in completely a third direction.  Killer Croc has been too close to rising and hammered too far down for his pride to let it go like this.  And he's sick of collars and muzzles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unsettled, he shakes his head, snapping his jaws and whipping his tail behind low to clear the broken plastic away from his path.  Her brow furrows and her eyes narrow, the edges of her smile pulling back and down into a true grimace as he takes a deliberate step backwards </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyway</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  "Fuck you, you Titan-addled bitch!  It takes a lot more than the muscle alone!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunk-</span>
  <em>
    <span>crunch</span>
  </em>
  <span> go Killer Croc's claws as he keeps backing up.  "You gotta know </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> to use it-- and when not to risk a fight when some drugged-up junky might be able to stumble into doin' some damage on their way to a throat getting cut!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's true.  It is!  It has to be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He even draws a claw across his own throat for emphasis.  All it does is remind him that he looks like a pencil-neck compared to the Titan (or whatever) addled bitch in question.  Even the bulge of her traps is more dramatic-- and unfairly shapely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley just sneers at him, and takes a step forward.  It's a swagger, waggling her hips with more sensuality than five Poison Ivys and more confidence than ten Banes.  Her breasts bob and bounce with it, fist sized nipples somehow finding more stiffness as she walks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The extra membranes that protect his eyes in the deep click shut over the red; as though to try to protect himself from drowning in Harley.  Like the jiggles and flexes alike were waves, ready to swallow him up.  His cock throbs at the sight of her-- but his knees just want to bend all the way to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each step's full-body sway from delts to quads to the balls of her feet emphasizes the terrifying array of musculature in her new body.  "You already tried th'tough guy bullshit, okay?" she says with a snort.  "Now can it.  I ain't got patience for macho bullshit at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- an' I ain't gonna be too gentle with ya just because you got terminal ego disease."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley doesn't have to nod towards the Joker's corpse when she says the word terminal; his eyes are drawn in that direction anyway.  She doesn't have to, and doesn't; it's like her words are nodding </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> on her behalf.  The battered corpse looks like something he'd do-- perhaps more blunt trauma than slices, but still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head aches again.  For all the differences from the baseline-- and in many ways, Harley's appearance </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be as alien as his own-- they are both human-descended predators.  Her confidence, if nothing else, seems to be driving the Croc to cringe and flinch; it's only the man in him that still has any pride left.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or any sense, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks.  The blood and the ruined body of the Joker inflames his bestial self, whispering that he should just give up and obey-- be fed-- by the superior predator.  But the wideness and fire in her eyes tells him she's raging on something far worse than Titan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc backs up, forcing himself to stick to slow, measured steps, his tail warning him to turn before he reaches the wall.  The turn slows him, and soon she's in arm's length.  Hers and his both; what his claws don't make up, her breasts close the distance even more rapidly than her stride.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gotta get her to back off,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he knows.  The wildness in her eyes isn't just the metahuman version of 'roid rage, though she's got some of that, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's killed her man.  He's seen enough domestic violence, the highs and the lows, to know that strips away layers of restraint that even the worst women don't usually know they had.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>A mean dog is even worse once they've become a rabid bitch.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"You ain't got the chops anyway," Waylon says; blusters, really.  "You're an athlete, an acrobat at heart, Quinn.  Stick to bouncing around and leave the muscle to the ones that know it.  I don't want to risk a broken bone or two on the way to breaking your neck-- that's the only reason you're even still </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathing</span>
  </em>
  <span>!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's shameless, aggressive nakedness, and the lurid sexuality of her every motion has him hot enough on the cheeks and throat.  But the way she tugs one finger in the inside of her left cheek, sticks out her tongue and makes retching sounds makes blood boil up to his skin spreading virtually from shoulder to shoulder.  It even makes a sort of purplish hue within the green, all the way across the top of his powerful chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Is it so powerful, though; are his shoulders truly broad?  Can they be?  In comparison to </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what you're aiming at, Quinn," Waylon growls and snaps his teeth mere centimeters from her face.  All she does is wave her broad hand between them, just in front of her nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not that he doesn't expect this sort of corny bullshit from a clown; if anything, her… ex… was worse.  It's that he can see the evidence of her power, and she's not using it.  The instincts in him are screaming about a trap; the man who would have been a crime king wonders if it's a trick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But neither part wants to make the first move.  Information is the key.  Waylon Jones wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>facts</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the atavistic part of himself wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>data</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- and the enhanced senses of a body that no longer feels towering, just lumbering should be the bridge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he probes at the edge, growling, "Gotta wonder if this is some illusion, some trick!"  He tucks his muzzle down and cranes his neck, red eyes scanning her slowly.  "If you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought you could take me, you'd be attacking first."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc's nostrils flare and he inhales deeply.  It's a mistake, one that she clearly wants him to make.  Her tongue flicks over her lips as he fills his lungs with her scent, and the massive, ophidian man lets out a tiny whimper of hunger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunger for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, Waylon-- Croc-- all of him is pulsing with awareness that her pussy is incredibly, amazingly wet.  That the more she's pushed him back, the damper she's gotten, arousal drooling over her thighs perhaps even more copiously than his precum to the floor.  She's so wet, so delicious and compelling in her musky-heady scent that he can barely make out the meaty smell of the Joker's cooling corpse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it wasn't for the streaks on her mighty body, he might not be able to make out the scent at all.  His jaw opens wider, and his back…  His back begins to lower, following the sudden, terrible weakness in his knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Harley's broad palm hammers into the left of his chest, right below the clavicle.  He cries out in shock-- and </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain,</span>
  </em>
  <span> more shocking still-- for despite the deceptive apparent lightness of the gesture, he's crammed back into the wall behind.  The next strike slams into his back, slapping into the wall and barely missing taking his tail with it, isn't even the worst of it-- there's a rapidly spreading bruise in the shape of the heel of her palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Batman once had to use </span>
  <em>
    <span>explosives</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his chest.  Just to knock him out.  Harley Quinn is leaving her mark on him-- with just her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc stares at her, stunned.  Her smile broadens again, and he suddenly wonders what so many of his victims saw.  When his maw went wide, and all the fangs glistened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I called ya, Crocky," she growls.  The Brooklyn in her voice is nearly an unpaved road, but instead of irking him it feels like it's flaying the last bits of humanity from atop the beast.  "Ya took too long, but I'm willin' to forgive that, see."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can respond, Harley smacks the back of her left hand across his half-open jaw.  The pain is all the worse as the top and bottom move at slightly different speeds, both joints dislocated.  "You crashee bi--" he howls-- and she slaps him back the other way, so precisely that it pops both joints back together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His regeneration does for the tears in the ligaments and tendons that move them.  The sound echoes in his head, making his nictating membranes click across his eyes like his body thinks he's underwater.  The mere five centimeters difference in height doesn't seem enough to account for the length of her shadow, cutting him off from the harsh bluish light.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wags her pointer finger at Killer Croc, then points to the left jaw joint, then the right.  "That's what I'm lookin' for, Waylon," she croons.  "Tough enough ta survive some </span>
  <em>
    <span>light</span>
  </em>
  <span> feistiness, an' the healin' to get it back up even faster."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley illustrates her point with an almost airy tap of her free hand across his package, her palm leaving a stinging red mark on the shaft and her fingers squeezing at his sac.  He roars in pain and outrage, snapping those fangs inches from her face.  A half-berserk fury strikes and he lashes out at her shoulders, claws extended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"You don't mess with me!" he roars.  "I wrestled gators!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only-- Waylon's claws </span>
  <em>
    <span>chip</span>
  </em>
  <span> against her skin, taut and tight.  As he reflexively tries to tighten his grip around deltoid bulges far too heavily developed for him to even grasp much more than halfway around, she laughs at him again.  A sharp, ringing laughter, neither the high pitched hyena cackle of the Joker's, nor the giggling poisoned sweetness she's wielded from time to time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughs, and slams her left hand up on his right shoulder, moving her right hand from his chest to the corresponding shoulder as well.  "What a croc'a shit," she says, spitting to the side.  "Coulda done this the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span> hard way.  Well-- it's gonna be fun </span>
  <em>
    <span>eitha</span>
  </em>
  <span> way for me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's fingers clench, and his roars become a scream.  "And th' hard way for you, either way, either," she growls.  "Ya think the big, bad gator-wrestler tricks can getcha out of Harley's hands?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, she kisses him, fangs and all, and when his tongue laps forward reflexively, she wrestles it right to the very side of one of his sharpest fangs.  The wild-eyed blonde strokes her tongue aggressively over his-- longer than hers, but otherwise, smaller.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers lay pain into Waylon's shoulder but the strength of her tongue is what frightens him the most.  His tongue, incredibly sensitive and increasingly important to his sense of the world, is drawn right along his own razor sharpness by her dominating organ.  She takes him to the very edge of cutting it-- to test his regeneration, perhaps?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man inside the beast can barely tell.  The beast barely cares, too frightened to make a move.  The woman frenching him pulls back from his long muzzle and laughs.  Her palms shove him hard up against the wall, rattling his head as she growls, "Show me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Killer!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Show me 'how to use' strength!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley spits to the side again.  "If ya got any, anyways," she purrs, pretty face haughty as she looks over him yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The disdain.  It jabs him sharply, right in the gut of the boy banished from even rough company by the roughness of his skin.  The boy who had to fight and force his way to strength and discipline over a long, terrible life of isolation, ostracism, and crime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all the pain she's already inflicted on him, Waylon feels all too eager to follow her orders.  "Fine!" he roars back, and whips his hands up beneath her arms, striking below the ribs with a double knifehand chop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does quite a bit of damage-- to his hands.  But the howl of pain comes from the same mad source as the attack in the first place, and he can't seem to stop himself.  His knuckles come up under her arms, aiming for the nerves and the brachial arteries-- they split open, healing fast but stinging terribly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc's bestial side doesn't feel very bestial.  It feels so small and confused.  But this is where the skill and the power and the pride of the man comes to the fore.  He wasn't stronger than the gators to start, not really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just knew how to fight-- and he knows how to fight big, hulking metas too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it's Waylon in full control of himself who whips into action at her with all the savage speed of his meta-mutated body.  First two knuckles of each hand extended, he strikes at the clavicle, in the weakest points both beneath and closer to the shoulder joint.  Failing that, despite her lock on his shoulders, he slaps his scaled-forearms up against her burly upper arms-- or rather, off of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's smile gets wider, as do her eyes, pupils dilating with arousal.  "That's it," she coos at him in those rocky tones.  "Gimme all ya got."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ear claps, throat jabs, twisting his arms against hers-- nothing.  Panicked into foul-blows already, he desperately punches and even rakes at the huge soft targets of her perky, jiggly breasts.  All it does is make her groan and shake her hips about-- the treetrunk heft of her arms stays put, keeping him locked to the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, and the steady flood of feminine arousal becomes quite the gush; the trail of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> juices quite swallows up the drip-drop of Killer Croc's cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In desperation, he tries hauling down on Harley's huge arms and all their tightly grooved definition with all his strength.  Once he'd thought it considerable, his strength.  Once he'd thought it his second greatest tool-- then his greatest, when his mind began to fail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To her great amusement, laughing in his face-- and licking her lips-- she watches as he literally hauls himself off the ground in a desperate attempt to bring her down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He follows through with the knee strike to her cut belly.  A mistake; he cracks his patella, leaving him screaming yet again, eyes rolling back in pain as he thrashes around in his hold.  In the end, all Croc can do is stare at her, slack jawed, as he heals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's broken.  His bestial instincts were already close; the pride that carried him against Bane is broken on the same stone-strong body upon which his knee and hands were devastated.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She doesn't even have to block me.  Even Bane had to parry-- even the Batman!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Weylon slumps-- as much as he can, pinned by her palm.  She's barely leaning on it, just putting enough extra force to slow his healing.  To make him feel every bit of reworked tissue struggle in place-- permitted, but only with the realization of who is mistress here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley just snorts.  "We done already?" she asks with a disdainful sniff.  "My turn."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flinches back and bellows "No!" only realizing his mistake far too late.  She's not in the mood for the demands of men, not any more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's pupils narrow and her brows rise, her lips curling back and open but with no smile there.  Her fist is already parallel with her shoulder by the time his thoughts assemble themselves-- it's like her arm teleported into position.  The air screams, whipping her red tips wildly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fist she makes looms immensely in his mind.  The membranes click shut over his eyes while the brows stretch wide.  The impossibilities of doing anything about the blow-- dodging, blocking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> except suffer-- flash through the beast-side while his thoughts babble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please!" Killer Croc howls, firmly expecting that the impact will hit before the pl even completes in his long muzzle.  Both hands are up and tears streaming; his eyes shut completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, the explosive </span>
  <em>
    <span>BOOM</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the sound of crumpling concrete is just to the left side of his head.  The debris that cascades away from the impact crater of her gentle tap smacks him upside the head, bouncing off his face but thankfully not with the same force of even that tap.  Then she yanks her hand back out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a scream of metal that makes him try to plaster his head as close to the opposite side as he can.  The impossible force against his shoulder vanishes; the healing tissue rushing in with another lashing sting of choked regeneration and the bruise's last throes.  Then she clears her throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon knows better than to keep her waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes-- membranes firmly in place-- his throat feeling tight and small already.  Right by his head, just to the side of his left eye, she's holding a long, thin section of whatever strange alloy Arkham uses for rebar these days.  It's not ordinary steel, he knows that; even his escapes would be channeled by walls and doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not Harley Quinn's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leers at him and loops her hands around behind his neck, powerful, hard forearms set over shoulders that abruptly feel miniscule.  As she mouths the words Eyes Open at him, she hangs lightly back-- not enough to cause pain-- like she was a lover waiting for another kiss.  Even his nictating membranes slam open, and the feel of her pale flesh over his green </span>
  <em>
    <span>burns</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for the icy chill in his spine where the rebar touches his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ya know what I'm going to do, Waylon," Harley purrs, swishing her naked hips from side to side, shaking her ass to music only in her own head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"M-make that into a collar," he rasps.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I've fought so long I've worked so hard…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  But that's just the echoes of pride muttering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, and starts to press her thumbs into the rebar behind his neck; a more muted form of that terrible scream of violated metal accompanies the motion.  "And we both know ya </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, don't you, Cocky Croc?" she growls, bringing her broad knee up to his low-hanging balls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she does, she gives a cruel laugh.  "Might as well just call ya Cock.  It's what you're for, even when I'm usin' that tongue-- pleasin' my pussy delight."  Then the pressure from her knee and thigh redoubles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to injure.  Just to pin his thick and semen-swelling nuts up against his shaft, stiff so hard it aches.  Killer Croc is beaten-- beat and terrified, especially terrified of what she'll do to punish him for the precum that drools across her thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have any more chance than the rebar.  Harley licks her lips, smiling Hungrily as she flexes her quads and smacks her hardness into his poor hard-on, bouncing it about.  Her left eyebrow raises a bit, and she makes sure his red eyes are focused before adding, "I'm going ta be really, really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> miffed if you suddenly decide to try takebacks, Cock."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A carnival strongwoman, showing off before Victorian or turn of the century crowds, might have thus unbent horseshoes.  Except she'd have needed to sweat and flex, to tighten up her muscles and use them hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The muscular titan that is Harley Quinn needs nothing of the sort.  The rebar might as well be playdough or unfired clay for all it makes those big forearms move, which is to say not at all.  "Disappointed?" she asks, giggling and deliberately squeezing her palms and fingers further as she continues to lock him in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"N-no," he stutters through clenched fangs.  "Y-you're just fine… boss."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The humiliation of the admission heats his green-scaled skin but makes the luscious mega-amazon grin triumphantly; her triumph seems safer, to Waylon.  The action bulges up the great, fiber-spiraled dome of interweaving muscles, all but pinning his maw up and straight all on their own,  He tries to lift his jaw just a bit, not taking his eyes from hers but trying not to touch her with even his breathing unbidden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley licks her lips slowly.  "I know, right?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>So</span>
  </em>
  <span> fine," she laughs, and flexes her pecs out.  The banded muscles </span>
  <em>
    <span>slam</span>
  </em>
  <span> the heavy softnesses of her immense breasts into his chest like-- well, bags, being slung about by an out-of-control robot or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The power from them-- and the stiffness of her fist-sized nipples-- draws a swift grunt and pained little hiss.  His eyes start to water in pain again, his body's so-called muscles quiver in fear and strain, leaving him to whisper, "You got it." through his jaws in as tiny of a voice as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The atavistic part of Waylon Jones is… silent.  It's easier to think now, even with all the agony that just her </span>
  <em>
    <span>presence</span>
  </em>
  <span> brings, even with the trembling, hopeless pleasure her thigh's potent bulges batter into his balls and dick.  There's no beast side from which to take a snarl, nor the instinct to thrash and crash in a futile-- probably fatal-- attempt to get free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man, now...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huge and stunning, Harley finishes bending the cold, heavy steel around his neck, but there's plenty of extra length.  What little dignity he has-- and knows she'd rather he remembered to forget-- is horrified that she might decide that his collar should be a bow tie.  It's tight enough already, and while her thumb smoothed the inside, the edges of it presses into his scaled flesh enough to make every breath-- every </span>
  <em>
    <span>heartbeat</span>
  </em>
  <span> a reminder he surrendered himself…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a certain value of willingly, even.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man knows that his only value lies in obedience.  For what he is, he's big and tough.  Faced with the feminine wall of muscle and curves, he's a slender beanpole, only really useful in that he'll last up under those terrible thighs and powerful fists just a bit longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley finishes her folding and pulls her hands away, raking them down across his chest.  His scales are no defense against the red line of pain, and he tilts his chin almost completely vertical in strangled agony-- the bellow doesn't make it past the collar.  It doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> like a bowtie, but how could he tell?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, her hands finish leaving their slowly hanging mark.  She takes a firm hand on his dick-- literally, squeezing somehow both so tight and so.. so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> that it feels like he's in her pussy already.  A pussy, anyway; as she wrings another splurt of pre onto her thigh, he realizes he has no idea how she will be around him-- except, he suspects the heat will all but brand him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I appreciate you appreciatin' me, Cock," Harley says, chewing on her lower lip as her eyes flick up and down him, inspecting him.  "But I ain't so keen on external use like that.  Plus…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whimpers, shoulderblades grinding into the wall behind him.  "I've got some bits of Mistah J on me still," she coos, full, honeyed lips half-pouting, half-kissing the words at him.  "Won't ya be a doll an' take care'a that?"</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes, the exchange of pain and domination from a Hunter to prey brings with it something beautiful. Vandal Savage's sojourn in the dark is long and terrible, but not only is Star one of the kindest queens, but he personally gains an end to his own self-destructive tendencies, reforged as her servant. Emily Ennison's path to servitude goes through the very antechamber of death, but she's blissfully happy and has all her nearest and dearest safe in the long run.</p><p>And Waylon Jones? Years ago, Hush stripped him of his intellect and self-control to turn him into the giant killing machine that now is no more threat to the Hunters than a feather. It's not going to be easy serving one of the quirkiest and least predictable Hunters, but not only Harley's Hungers not nearly so strong as the greatest of her species...</p><p>But she can keep the beast at bay. In her presence, he can be a thinking person once again. Her slave and her toy, and sometimes she puts him right back down, but even that is nothing so terrifying as her presence.  All he has to do is audition with his tongue for the part of her playtoy.</p><p>And for the part of "still breathing."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A Few Minutes Later…</p><p><em> I should have known, </em> Waylon Jones thinks, resigned as he balls up the last scrap of wall-padding, soaked in blood.  Naked except for a rebar "collar," the slowly-healing marks of his new owner's hands on him, and a raging erection that simply won't go away, he's spent a fair amount of time having to suppress his slightly resurgent bestial side.</p><p>He's so horny it almost literally burns.  She wants him horny, and, hell, she's even hornier than him if anything.  But he should have known, and he shouldn't have "fought" her.</p><p>Harley Quinn wants him humiliated.  Just like she was for years   She wants to crush his pride so thoroughly he cums on command and drools to be abused.</p><p>It's not that the atavistic part of him doesn't want to please his new mistress.  Of course it does-- the beast in Killer Croc-- or Cock, as she's called him a few times-- was the first part of him to roll over and show its metaphorical belly to the crazed giantess.</p><p>And as a result, Waylon, once a contender for Crime King of Gotham, is an all-too-willing participant in his own subjugation.  When he serves her, so long as she wills it, he can <em> think </em> again.  So what if that's constantly horny, cringing thinking?</p><p>Somehow, he's even becoming clever again.  And as for the humiliation?  She ridicules his weakness and submission, not the alienness of his shape.</p><p>He'll be her Killer Cock for that; not that he had a choice.</p><p>The intense personal presence of Harley Quinn and her massive, gorgeous physique, coupled with a justified haughtiness just turned the savage, berserk cannibal in him into a whimpering little puppy.  She barely had to do much more than shift her shoulders and swagger her legs; the muscular might of her motion alone made him feel feeble and weak despite the mere five centimeters difference in height.</p><p>Well, she shook her imposing, excessive bust and luridly curved hips at him, too.  That seemed to hammer the man and the Croc both, each recognizing the mating plumage of a dominant female displaying her ability to both protect and punish a new addition to her string.  Possibly the first…</p><p>The first added to the string since the Joker's failure to survive the change in Harley's status, from moll to muscle monster.</p><p>It only took a little pain, slapped and shoved into him, to beat away the rest of the man's pride.  His head aching and his consciousness dying by inches from Hush's virus anyway, he'd given in to her superior strength.  The feminine power she had over both of him seemed so absolute.</p><p>And so it was.  When Harley slapped him down, she actually made it <em> easier </em> for him to think.  Ironically, submission to the woman who just calls him "Cock" or some other mocking moniker seems to hold the atavism at bay.</p><p>Then she demanded he clean the precum her strength and size had wrung from his poor cock, all over her left thigh.  And the remains of the Joker smeared across her muscular thighs and breasts to boot.  He'd expected she meant with his tongue, and he hadn't minded so much.</p><p>Killer Croc has chomped down on human meat before.  More or less since birth, he's been ostracized, taunted, and tormented for being different.  Told in nearly so many words that he was a mutant, an alien outcast with no place in their society, and any place he had, he tore open with his own two hands.</p><p>So when Hush stripped layers after layers of his once-brilliant intellect away, leaving him with brutal new strength, speed, and <em> hunger </em>, it wasn't hard to make the leap to eating humans.  The leap, the pounce-- and the chomp.  The meat-smell of the Joker's slowly cooling corpse had been mixed in with the circulation of her horny pussy's musk; together, they'd drawn Killer Croc into what amounted to the rotten heart of Arkham.</p><p>So of course, Harley Quinn didn't let him lick a damn thing.  "You'll get you some taste of Harley's Quim soon enough," she'd said with a disdainful snort.</p><p>"And believe ya me, you'll be licking up any <em> slips </em> here," she told him, and flicked his prick painfully with a long, strong finger.  "But I gotta retrain ya, Cock.  Make somethin' useful outa ya so ya won't bite my housebitches-- er, houseguests.  Those too, I guess."</p><p>So she'd posed and preened and flexed, every flex making him feel smaller and smaller and weaker and weaker, every smug rotation of her hips making him feel hornier and hornier.  Meanwhile, his rebar collar squeezing painfully at his throat, he'd torn more shreds of the padding from the floor of the Joker's former cell, and <em> manually </em> wiped the blood and lube and worse from Harley's thighs and chest.</p><p>She'd even climaxed-- just lightly-- from it once, forcing his head back between her thighs so she could coat his scaly head with her musk.</p><p><br/>Harley didn't let him lick up any of that, either.  His bestial side and his male lusts agree-- he'd do more or less anything to taste her pussy.  Not just to please his mistress, either, but for itself alone to taste that heady, tangy scent and revel in the sensation.</p><p>It's dangerous, and Waylon knows it.  Her sexual pheromones aren't mind controlling… he thinks.  Or at least, not in the sense of Poison Ivy.</p><p>They're just roared out demands for sex nearly as strong on the mind as her fists would be on his body.</p><p>Now, the way she jiggles, shakes, and seems to know just how to flex at the right moment to show off a terrifying combination of beautiful, idealized muscle-form and awful, inexorable strength?  <em> That </em> much, he's certain has a pretty firm grip around his mind.  Her musk just puts him into headspace where he's all the more receptive to it.</p><p>"All done, Mistress Harley," he rasps around the collar's choke.  "Please," he whimpers.  "Please let me…"</p><p>"Lemme make this clear, <em> Waylon </em>," Harley growls, cutting him off.  "The second that tongue'a yours touches muff, you're auditioning."</p><p>Such a simple, banal word.  It leaves him cringing again, and not just because the ripple of strength just on her corded neck and rippling shoulders makes him feel like a pencil-necked geek… again.  The way she smiles, the way her lips twist in cruel satisfaction, warns him of much worse.</p><p>So Waylon just bows his head, nodding.</p><p>The triumph over the dregs of his pride pleases her; the irresistible scent of her pleasure rising again.  Two fingers come down beneath her colossal boobs, over her rugged abs, and strokes her damp mound.  As they move closer and closer to her clit, he has a harder and harder time keeping his red, beady eyes on her deep blues.</p><p>He's still too afraid not to keep contact-- with either.  So he just bobs his head back and forth between promised slit and threatening smile.</p><p>It pleases Harley.  She purrs, "Got a little of it, I see," as her hips begin to sway from side to side, making her potent, sculpted quads bulge out.</p><p>"Real simple, Not-So-Killer Cock.  You're auditioning for the part of henchdude… mook… and <em> breathing </em>."  The last is growled so hard it makes him drop to one knee, shuddering and crouching away from her.</p><p>Harley has no patience for his terror, though.  Instead, nostrils flaring, she crooks a finger-- the pointer finger she's using to stroke her clit.  He whimpers, falling heavily to his knees, his cock bouncing with the impact.</p><p>But Waylon doesn't waste time on something as insignificant as his cock.  If it messes, he's punished anyway.  He crawls forward, barely avoiding going down on all fours.</p><p>"Mistress," he groans, reaching out a hand.  "I'm afraid."  So afraid he can't even express it.</p><p>There's a little bit of gentleness to her then.  Her pointer sweeps down from her clit, running along the damp, fat labia, collecting her dew.  His heart wrenches; his cock and tongue scream at him to taste, but he waits anyway.</p><p>"Why are ya afraid, Cocky?" she croons, popping her finger into her mouth, sucking lightly for just a moment.  "Tell Dr. Quinzel all about it."</p><p>Her voice is rough with him, making his dick pulse again as though her fist was already on it.  "It's not just your strength," he whispers.  "Not just your anger-- mistress, you make me <em> think </em>."</p><p>An eyebrow raised tells him he'd better think of better ways to say that.  Scale-covered arms over muscles barely strong enough to please her, cross over his taut chest, squeezing the opposite shoulders.  His eyes shift back and forth, tail lashing behind.</p><p>But Waylon knows he dare not delay. Swallowing heavily, he uses her gift of thought as best he can.  "You-- when you order me, when you concentrate on me, I can think again, like a man.  It takes away what Hush did to me."</p><p>"An' that's a reason t'<em> not </em> follow those orders?" she asks, blessedly without a growl.  Harley's skepticism makes him quaver, but there's enough curiosity in there to keep him from freezing entirely.</p><p>"It makes me more afraid," he says, squeezing his body tighter.  It used to be a source of pride, of strength; now, it's just useful for her.  Except he's not using it for her yet.</p><p>Waylon plunges on.  "The ferocity, the drive-- that's all in the Croc.  You beat that down long before the gator-wrestler tapped out.  All I got left is surrender, and fear, and worse…"</p><p>"Worse than me, hmm?"</p><p>"No," he whispers.  "It's still you.  I'm afraid to <em> touch </em> you.  You could destroy me-- or your smell, your taste, could wipe out the man entirely.  Leave nothing left but a croc with a collar."</p><p>"Oh, Cocky…"  Harley's voice is almost gentle.  Her hands on his rebar collar, though, are <em> not </em>.</p><p>Bulging muscles push under taut, pale skin.  She moves just fast enough he can't avoid it; just slow enough he can see the snaking interplay of striated triceps and biceps, undulating down to the fibrous, macehead-mass of her forearms.</p><p>Waylon couldn't move even if she grabbed a whit slower; he's stuck, like a garter snake about to be snagged by a sororicidal python.</p><p>She yanks him back up to his feet in a moment.  Her shredded stomach hardly tenses, and he's no task at all for those support-column-sized limbs.  They pull him closer and closer until his muzzle is touching her sternum and they can look straight on, eye to eye.</p><p>He's held right up against the same immensely powerful forearms whose symmetric, fractal combination of grace and power had held him fast by looks alone.  They're all that stands between the upper part of her breasts, but his whole body, nearly as tall as she, spasms as her nipples press in against him anyway, their stiffness and heat followed by the even-warmer softness of those luscious breasts.</p><p>Waylon serves in that, at least.  The instant her breastflesh oozes around and claims him, nips-first, her tongue flicks across her lips, while the lower pair moisten themselves just fine.  The way her teeth follow her tongue onto the lower lip, biting down tight makes him feel like he's already caught in her jaws.</p><p>The force of her makes him yelp and shudder, his cock brushing against her thigh again, unashamedly splurting pre everywhere.  "There," she says with a smirk.  "It knows better than you."</p><p>"Now, you listen t'me, <em> Killer </em> ," Harley tells him.  "When I give ya an order, I ain't playin' games.  I ain't one of <em> you </em> bosses, lookin' for a reason ta shoot you.  You know why that is?"</p><p>"Because you'll just break me?"</p><p>"Because I'll <em> crush </em> you if I think you're <em> tryin' </em> to step outta line.  I've <em> been </em> a flunky, Waylon.  I don't got time for cringing, eitherways.  But you do what I tell you, an' if I want it handsfree?"</p><p>"You'll say?"</p><p>"I'll just say," Harley agrees.  Her fingers flick out, making him cry out again, agonizing lines of reddened pain slapped onto his neck and traps, knocking him away from her.  To the floor.</p><p>To his knees.  This time Waylon does crash onto his hands as well.  His body is a slender imitation of her mega-amazonian beauty, twisted mutated.  If he's an acrobat of the heavies, she isn't a bodybuilder-- she's a <em> metahuman </em> brick, big, badass and beyond anything he could ever be.</p><p>So he comes to Harley on all floors, skittering to her obediently.  Harley's grin broadens as he scuttles forward, her fingers coming back down to her pussy as he does so.  First the right, then the left index fingers stroke up and within, drawing her femmejuices and a short, grunting, "<em> Unf </em>."</p><p>She paints the muscles of her inner thighs as he arrives, pausing just to kiss her feet while keeping his red eyes locked on her blues.  Sartorius first, following the cable-like length about halfway down, but then she swirls spirals up and down and through the heavily developed bulges of strength.  She traces the quads, the adductors, everything as the long swaths of banded flesh tighten and expand with sudden flexing.</p><p><br/>"Here ya go," Harley croons.  "Follow th' signs, mean ol' mister cock-a-dile."</p><p>Waylon knows his muscles, or thought he did.  For a moment, he just stares up in awe-- and it's not just the mass, not just the definition.  Not the definition alone, anyway, but rather, how she controls it.  </p><p>As far as he knows, you can sort of flex bits of other muscles by flexing near ones, tugging across them or maybe, just maybe, putting the whole limb to a specific use.  Standing with her thighs slightly spread, Harley is making individual subsections bow out to meet her fingertips, not even individual muscle heads.  But what he <em> really </em> knows is better than to delay again.</p><p>"Aw, ya like?" she giggles.  "That good enough knowin' how to <em> use </em> 'em?"</p><p>"Far better than I could," Waylon rasps, and kisses her left knee lightly, shaking like a leaf.  "I'm sorry, mistress."</p><p>"Good."  She gives him a little nod as she pulls her fingers back and away, this time up to those gorgeous breasts.  But what she does with her hands is her business; it's her orders that concern him.</p><p>Grateful for her forbearance, he rests his arms against her killer thighs, unable to avoid a further shudder as he rests his smoothly-scaled biceps and forearms against far superior feminine muscle.</p><p>Even close to the knees he can't even get most of the way around Harley's legs.  He doesn't dare close his eyes, so the membranes nictate, trying to shield something of his dominated psyche from the beauty of her muscles.  Besides, he can't see her eyes to keep meeting them, not around <em> that </em> rack.</p><p>So, cock quivering every bit as much as the rest of him, Waylon hugs onto her thickly-muscled thighs for support, while his long tongue reverentially flicks out to finally, finally feed.  The scent that teased him, the scent that forced his bestial side to the fore-- the scent that dragged him here by the nose-- it's only a preview.</p><p>"Nnngh!" he groans, his tongue swirling over those stone-strong prominences.  The musky-heady <em> taste </em> of Harley Quinn almost gets him climaxing from the first touch.  And, to his surprise, it's not just the power of her pussyjuice.  Pressing his tongue fruitlessly against her impermeable skin and mighty muscles beneath feels so good, too.</p><p>She moans, too, her hands squeezing and fondling roughly at her endless supply of tit.  Each time she hefts and jiggles them his dick splurts precum.  If it wasn't the taste of her arousal, the scent still rushing around his head, or the beautiful waves of constantly perky teat, it'd be the ferocious, unyielding strength against his tongue.</p><p>Like it's the first part of what a tongue's for.  He clings to both legs as he pushes himself up on his knees.  Green rubs against the near-albino paleness of jokerfied skin, weak meta muscles against potent Hunter majesty.</p><p>"<em> More, </em>" she demands.  His own muscles tense up, pushing against her, like climbing up unyielding stone before his change.</p><p>Green, and red, against that surprisingly warm paleness.  His long tongue curls out, following the form and development of those divinely enhanced quads, then flicking and darting back to the other side.  He even retracts it, just to kiss against the expanding curves of strength-- at least as much as his croc-style maw will permit.</p><p>Then, he reaches heaven.  Waylon thought he'd found it in the swamp, and perhaps that was the croc's heaven.  Deep, dark, and secret, wet and waiting to swallow the rest of his life-- that's Harley's pussy, and it's heaven for the man.</p><p>The croc stayed, as long as other men would let him, in a kind of waking slumber.  His mistress will keep him safe from bastards like Hush, will keep him truly awake-- as long as he obeys.  So his first taste of her labia leaves him shaking up and down so badly he almost bites his tongue.</p><p>Shuddering sends the powerful abs above him rolling up and down, sharp, quick motions that make for more lush jiggling.  He can't see her, but he can hear the extended, "Oh <em> yeah! </em> " groan; he can certainly <em> feel </em> the lower parts of her quads suddenly bulge out, pushing him up and against her her sex.</p><p>For a moment, Waylon wonders if she's just going to force his maw apart, break his fangs and ride his tongue.  He certainly couldn't stop her, and wouldn't even dare to try.  The croc wakes in him a bit-- but it's just as cunny-hungry as the man, so he just slurps his way over her moist nether lips anyway, caressing as much of her as he can before she comes to whatever decision she must.</p><p>He almost chokes, moaning with pleasure as he tastes more and more of his owner's pleasure.  Harley doesn't break him, but she does reach down with long, strong fingers, first to caress over the bald, scaley dome of his head, then to squeeze the back of it, pushing him up sharply.  His fangs run against the edge of her musclebound thighs, but she is merciful; there, she rests, his muzzle open wide.</p><p>He can't call out to Harley, can't see her like this, and yet he can't feel ridiculous.  Just lucky she's generous enough to leave parts of him irrelevant to her pleasure intact.</p><p>A <em> little </em> boldness is called for-- and a lot of tongue.  So while his tongue glides agilely against her sex, the flat pushing against the very top of her lips and the tip desperately pushing her super-stiff clit around, Waylon's hands come up behind her.  He works slowly, rubbing the immense hamstrings first, and moving up.</p><p>There's no way he can give the muscles a true deep-tissue massage; the gulf between even the smallest part of those thighs and his whole body is just too big.  But he hopes to give her a pleasant enough rub that, maybe…</p><p>"Oh, yeah, that's th' initiative momma Harley <em> likes </em>," rumbles down at him.  Harley releases his head, reaches down and round to guide his hands up her hips and to as much of her ass as he can reach.  Squatting between her thighs like this, he has to get them around some of the largest, roughest circumference, so that's not much.</p><p><br/>But he's got some room to maneuver, and she leaves him to it, going back to bouncing her big breasts around on her palms.  He takes that room to show how <em> useful </em> a mook with arms that are long enough can be.  While his tongue desperately dances, undulating against slit and wetness and clit, his hands rub and squeeze the smooth, firm flesh of her gorgeous ass.</p><p>All that plushy fat, yet all of it bouncy and jiggly.  "Keep it up, Cock," Harley groans at him.  "Ya learn fast!"</p><p>He knows he's going to find those lovely globes on his face at some point, so he thinks of the rubbing his hands are giving as pre-begging for mercy.  With her tush, at least, unflexed, he can squeeze and fondle the padding around.  He does eagerly, rubbing it slowly but surely, circling and pushing the plush together.</p><p>Another pleased growl lets Waylon know he's doing good; further fall of heavenly rain upon his tongue is confirmation.  Her taste is so rich that drool falls from both sides of his upturned muzzle, making his balls ache with desire to be used for that sex's satisfaction.  He may not be very used to either adoring ass or giving a proper, respectful muff-dive, but he's learning very fast.</p><p>There's a sound of lips smacking over <em> her </em> tongue, above, accompanied by a fresh gush.  "Nnngh!" she groans.  "S'a good start-- <em> faster </em>, Cock!  Deeper!"</p><p>Waylon's hands pick up speed as his tongue does.  One body, one pace, that's the limitation of the man in Killer Croc, and he matches that pace to her deep grunts and shallow pants.  He's been ordered deeper, so he gives her all his tongue can.</p><p>"<em> Fuck! </em> " she yells, pulling harder on her oversized nipples, fingers pushing into the areolae and scratching lightly with her nails.  "Ya givin' your dick some… mmff…  Some <em> standards </em> t'live up ta, Waylon."</p><p>Her tunnel clenches hard on his tongue; it's painful enough to make his eyes water, but he squirms his tongue around as much as he can anyway.  "Keep it up," she groans, a lower than low contralto.</p><p>He does keep it up, he definitely does; they both know his gurgling means, "Yes, mistress!"  Both the vigorous rubbing and squeezing at her juicy tush, and wriggling his tongue around in the trap, the thin end section to the tip able to turn and quest.</p><p>
  <em> Keep it up means finally getting to find out if the G-spot is real, I guess… Though the only woman it has to be real for is her! </em>
</p><p><br/>If Waylon's tongue is being slowly crushed, at least it's covered in more of her approval.  Her inner folds rub and tug at his tongue, dragging it helplessly along for the ride.  It gets worse, for a moment, when he finally does reach her G.</p><p><br/>The unexpected jolt of pleasure makes Harley howl and climax.  Not the full orgasm he knows she wants, but the scent alone would knock him off his feet even if he wasn't basically having his tongue fucked by her sex.  He howls, too, feeling like his tongue's going to be yanked right off by how strong her inner folds are.</p><p>His hands clench and grip, unable to hurt her butt but unable to give even a crude massage for the moment.  <em> Shouldn't be surprised… </em> he thinks, eyes watering. <em> Muscle, all muscle, and all muscle belongs to the mistress… </em></p><p>Also unexpected is the apology.  "S-sorry there, Cocky," Harley groans, petting his head.  Her sex releases its killer grip.  "Gonna hafta be careful with my new prize piece."</p><p>She laughs.  "An' the rest of you gets to be a prize too-- as long as ya keep up th' good linguistic work."</p><p>He mutters his best gratitude around his still-sore tongue, not mistaking the gentler grip of her cunt for permission to <em> stop </em> deep-drilling.  His fingers get back to work squeezing and pushing her assfat together, palms pressing in to the broad, beautiful cheeks.  He knows not to rest on his laurels, too.</p><p>Trapped between the colossal power of her thighs, Waylon's knees trembling and dick splurting so much precum he might as well be climaxing, he can feel her strength all around him.  Despite the pain her pussy inflicted in that nearly-unguarded moment of first climax, he feels… secure.  <em> Crocs go in cages, </em> he thinks, coiling his tongue back a little.  <em> There are worse cages than </em> these <em> thighs. </em></p><p>He's got enough length to keep his tip against Harley's G, and does, but moves enough of the flat back to thrash up and down between her pleasure-engorged labia more freely.  In a moment, he's even working up the rhythm to swallow her rich femmecum down, keep his tongue undulating, and aimed, too.  On the upslurp, he wriggles it more back and forth, wiggling the fastest when the flat touches her clit.</p><p>On the down, he coils it up and down, the better to keep caressing her clit as long as possible.  His jaws ache, held apart as they are, but what can he do?  If she flexed just a bit more, her muscles could tear him apart.  He's not going to risk that, for all her forbearance.</p><p>He's got that for now.  Harley shudders, back to roughly pinching and tugging her nipples.  "Good Cock, <em> good </em> cock!"</p><p>Instead, he desperately works to get more of her groans, more of her pants, and always, always, to get more of her femmejuices filling his mouth.  He can barely keep up with it, the drool at the edges of his mouth carrying more Harley-arousal than Croc-drool.  But that's alright.</p><p>The tip never leaves Harley's G once he finds it.  Benefit of the long tongue.  Not only does he not need to use his fingers, but he can wriggle the whole thing about, plunging the flat against folds and lips alike, using the very motion of pleasuring the rest of her sex to better grind the tip more and more against that sensitive little nub.</p><p>He's well aware that-- being decently hung for their size or not-- his cock <em> isn't </em> going to live up to this.  His tongue-- like she said-- is his value to her, his tongue, and his ability to quickly regenerate from the damage that even the peripheral flexing and accidental oversqueezes does to him.  As long as she lets him.</p><p>Her ass is in for its share of reverence, but the more he tastes of her, the harder it is to think, even with her demands.  Her wonderful taste and utter dominance of his body is pushing him to another atavism-- a true atavism of the man, primitive and obedient to this powerful goddess riding his face.  So he concentrates on setting up a pattern of squeezes and rubs on her rear, and hopes she'll allow him to just do his best work on her drenching snatch.</p><p><br/>Waylon groans, swiftly, to avoid being drowned in cunnyfluids.  Her pussy is still at least an equal partner, fucking his tongue harder than his tongue can lap in return.  But, like the wimp he is, he relies on agility now, twisting his tongue all about to better pleasure more of her sex.</p><p>To her, and her slit, the strength; to him, and his tongue, wriggling.  It's fitting.  Rewarded by her repeated cries of, "Yes!  Yes!  <em> YES! </em>" and getting those quick little edge-climaxes off, he soon learns how best to keep wriggling for her true climax.</p><p>"Gonna… mm," Harley groans.  "Gonna pull back when I'm close enough, Cocky," she purrs.  "You just bring that tongue low enough to keep momma Harley's clit happy then further back."</p><p>Waylon can hear her grin, glinting in her pleasure-tightened voice.  "Yeah, then further back t'drink your dinner like a good little Slutty Cock."</p><p>Something of his confusion must have been audible in his gurgled moan of acceptance, trying desperately to swallow what she's already given him.  "Well, I can't call ya <em> Killer </em> ," she purrs, rubbing her nipples rapidly between thumbs and forefinger.  " <em> These </em> are killer."</p><p>Since she's only <em> lightly </em> flexing the gargantuan thighs that are currently bracketing his head, bulging out the monstrous muscles to the point that his jaw pops and his skull feels like it's going to burst from pressure, not even from power…</p><p>Waylon doesn't argue.  He just moves his tongue around faster and faster between those juicy, aroused nether lips.  As she releases the flexion, his head clears some… but he finds he doesn't want it to.</p><p><br/>So he inhales as deeply of her musk as he can.  His hands rub and his tongue slurps, that's his whole life now.  Her labia are constantly treated to the big organ, the only part of him he can call "big" around Harley, and more and more he keeps her clit touching the flat of his tongue, seeking to stimulate it constantly.</p><p>The orgasm, the <em> real </em> orgasm for which the others were just warnings for him to prepare and sacrifices for her to devour-- it's coming.  There's a none-too-subtle shift in how she smells to him, and as promised, she rolls her hips back, shaking her derriere against his fondling hands.  He plays his part, regretfully retracting his tongue to worship her clit and the outer vulva alone for a bit.</p><p>"Aww," Harley grunts.  "Slutty Cock wants to please, don't he?"  Her voice is… not quite a coo, save perhaps of the most crazed of doves, but it's approving, not mocking.  "Just… just <em> obey </em>, Cock!" she moans.</p><p>"Just obey and I'll treatcha <em> real </em> good.  I… Oh, fuck, I promise!"</p><p>Her scream hits, and he obeys.  Hell, for a moment-- he thinks his name <em> is </em> Cock.  If she told him to change it-- well, he already answers to it when she uses it, doesn't she?</p><p>Waylon hopes she'll forgive a small variance on her order again.  But as his fingers move to just cup her suddenly flexing ass, rather than daring to compete with her huge, hard glutes, his tongue curls some.  It's pulled back enough to make a kind of cup between her lips, but rather than just passively sitting down lower and waiting for her, he keeps his tongue rubbing rapidly against her clit.</p><p>Harley leaves him alive; he figures that's probably a good sign she forgives-- maybe even approves.  Besides, when she roars out, "FUCK!" he pulls back <em> real </em> fast, his tongue almost cutting itself on a fang in his eagerness to drink her ejaculate.</p><p>She roars and roars as she squirts over his widespread maw.  His hands tremble at her butt, her glutes battering against them lightly enough not to break them, but that ass is definitely spanking him back.  But her <em> cum! </em></p><p>Waylon is overcome by the powerful taste of her female ejaculate.  As she groans and howls, splash after splash hits his mouth, but the taste hits harder.  Headier and stronger than her musk or her arousal juices, tangier still than her other climaxes, it makes his back arch as hard as he can, given his cramped conditions, his hands vibrating against her ass as the pleasure from her pussy's squirt takes hold of him.</p><p>It's a good thing she ordered him to just go ahead, or he'd miss some of her wondrous femmecum, cringing.  After all, when the first swallow claimed his throat was bad enough; by the third, he's cumming too, climaxing onto the shredded remains of the padding.</p><p>Harley lets her tits fall and grabs him by the back of the head.  For a moment, he's terrified he's taken his initiative too far and that's that, snapped up like one of his victims.  But she holds his head braced in place, fingers curling over his fangs and gripping them <em> just </em> on the side of chipping them; his sharpness doesn't even raise goosebumps on her flesh.</p><p>It's a good thing, too; she's suddenly squeezing her luridly excessive ass <em> really </em> hard and letting it go, thighs bulging wide then slacking, and her hips thrusting towards his head again and again.  Time and again, only the flexion in her forearms saves him, and his whole body vibrates in the aftershocks.  Her hips gyrate again and again while she finishes the squirting climax, and all he can do is kneel and swallow what she gives him.</p><p>Thankful for the honor.  He's a bit regretful when Harley suddenly slams his jaw shut, the better to finish cumming <em> on </em> him, but, eh.  She likes marking him, it seems, and it means the <em> scent </em> of her greatest pleasure is on him.</p><p>He doesn't know whether or not he has a refractory period any more, or whether it's that mind-blowing power of her gorgeous sex… but he's certainly still hard when she's done.</p><p><br/>"Oh, <em> yowzers </em> ," Harley moans.  "That was a good start, l'il man.  A good start on a <em> long </em> association."  As she drags her foot up over his still-quivering dick, he knows exactly what she means.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Waylon Jones has lucked out in a way that many metahuman men with strength, toughness, and regeneration powers won't. Shark Jaws and the Damage-esque Fusion Fighter will get their spines rewired for masochism.  Waylon will get a metal collar and have his bestial side leashed.  Many of his fellow bricks will have their bones broken, sometimes in ways that won't heal for days to week, or ever.  He'll mostly get bruises.</p><p>The difference, of course, is the Hunter who has him.  The same detachment from the rules and restrictions of the prior society has left her aware of the Hungers without being totally controlled by them.  She won't be the only one, but unlike Star, she won't have to pay a savage few hours for a lifetime of cheerfulness.  Just one, final break with the Joker.</p><p>So when he fears that his cock can't possibly equal the pleasure his tongue gave her pussy, she lays down the law but does not carve it into his bones.  His fear irritates her, but thanks, ironically, to the Joker's torment, the same peace of mind that all but a scant handful of other Hunters must pay for with madness and tears, she starts with.</p><p>So as she fucks him now, into the beast and out, will be how he always is: hers.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As many a man has already found out-- in living or in dying-- pleasuring a Hunter has its risks, but it's the best way to keep breathing the air of the changed Earth.  Especially in these early hours, sometimes a Hunter may lose control-- and there are so many muscles amongst the vaginal support structures.  But Hunter control is lost in milliseconds and regained faster; </span>
  <em>
    <span>usually</span>
  </em>
  <span> that's enough to save a treasured pleasure pet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon Jones, once called Killer Croc and now Slutty Cock, at his owner's pleasure, is trebly lucky.  Not only have his continued mutations left him with a regeneration factor enough to survive Harley Quinn's passion at a slightly higher level of intensity-- thus giving her more release-- but his long, long tongue predated his slip into near-animalistic savagery on the Hush Virus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He learned to use it with desperate prostitutes and with seekers of the odd.  Still, he did learn to use it, well enough to have an opening bid to worship the incredibly beautiful sex before him.  An important aid to survival when faced with Hunter pussy and the compelling call of Hunter pheromones, signalling her horniness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's also lucky in </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> has claimed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Harley is a middle-tier Hunter, in many ways.  Not one of the greats, though she'll have some clever tricks, and to any of mankind's old champions and tyrants, she might as well be a god to a gnat.  But she's blessed with something few Hunters can hold onto.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Compassion.  The same chemicals that took Harley's sanity broke her of the hold </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> species-set of mental constraints have.  She feels the Hungers, but is not controlled by them-- at least not now, well-fed.  She feels empathy leeching away, and hears the whispers, calling everyone else small and beneath her who cannot force her to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ignores them, and has rebuilt a </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span> of empathy for herself.  She will not give herself up lightly, but Poison Ivy will be right when she says that vicious cruelty is not Harley Quinn.  She has a queen's compassion-- a true and righteous queen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a very, very pervy one.  Her foot is, after all, still keeping him stiff and drooling.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>As below, so above, or something alchemicalish like that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And the queen wants her mount now… but the beast in question is somewhat broken.  For one thing, he fears being a beast, and that won't do.  Not at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the best way to tame a broken mount is not to re-break it, or at least, that's Harley's way of thinking.  She firmly pulls his smooth green head over to rest against her right thigh, forcing her powerful muscles to relax some and make a better pillow for her new mook.  He's passed his audition, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of him did, just like Harley found him, when she started to fuck with his brain.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did the Joker teach me that?</span>
  </em>
  <span> she wonders.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or did he just show me how to unleash it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, she's put a pretty </span>
  <em>
    <span>stiff</span>
  </em>
  <span> leash on this one, and she likes it that way.  Her toes stroke over a length of still-pink flesh, darker so than most, but still… correct.  Correct and stiff, the little nerve centers all along it easily visible-- all the way to the brain-- and their neurochemical consequences so </span>
  <em>
    <span>clear</span>
  </em>
  <span> now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon shudders as his cock is manipulated.  Little flexes and soft caresses, each finding not only the best place and way to stroke here-- but how to make them interfere and interact.  By the slacking of his jaw-- and the throbbing of his thick shaft-- alone, she'd be able to see their success.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Carefully limited success-- and not just because she doesn't want him blowing his wad just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could turn him into a howling fanatic with only a few hours concentrated work.  Or a jester, or-- anything.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Actually, lookin' at 'im… probably less'n'that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon is still cowering beneath her, tongue flicking back and forth as the power of her pussy lingers on the air.  She smiles smugly, watching him kneel.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was really made for this, wasn't he?  Even before Hush got to 'im.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought reminds her to later find and </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tommy Elliot if he survives the night.  He won't survive her gratitude.  Killer Croc belongs to her, and his pathetic gratitude to be dominated by her-- to make the bestial side go away, almost makes her want to wait on pushing him down further.  Almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's not like I don' want t'beat him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> her mind growls.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I gotta build him up some or all I'm gonna get is fuckin' jello-croc.  Wish Pammie was here t'help, those vines'd do a treat...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley strokes his face slowly as he recovers.  He trembles, the cute little muscles on his thick neck standing out as fear begins to overwhelm the pleasure of submission.  "Mistress, I'm sorry!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has an idea what he has in mind, but plays it out anyway.  "What for, Waylon?" she laughs, and brings her so-recently embiggened foot up to stroke along his still-splurting prick.  "Seems plenty hard t'me, and, heck-- ya hardly ruined my nice new linoleum.  Even hit a towel, if ya think about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little man-- well, big man, nearly as tall as Harley is now, but so skinny-- she's going to have to find some way to feed him up that doesn't involve </span>
  <em>
    <span>people</span>
  </em>
  <span> food.  The little big man blushes, red tinting the blue part of his green to purple.  "Y-you said my tongue was setting standards," he explains, flicking the rather delish organ in question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmmhmm?"  Her toes curl backwards; his pretty prick is big enough that she can squeeze it against the top of her foot.  It takes a while for him to get under control, but she's already figured out how to reduce his refractory period.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To nil.  The climaxing Croc gets to cum-- but only so much.  He moans and gasps throughout, but the end, while sticky…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is not full release, and both of them know it.  Just a taste of the pleasure Harley can give him; he remembers the pain well enough.  She shudders with him as his cock clenches down hard on itself, stroking the back of his head, watching him through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, green-covered muscles, cute enough on his skinny, serpentine frame, relax, and he bows his head to her.  "I can't live up to that," Waylon says, closing his eyes and bending his neck out, ready for the chop.  "I just can't-- it's not even big enough to properly fill you, mistress!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley snorts.  "Who gets t'make that assessment, minion o'mine?" she growls.  But contrary to his fears, she only swats him lightly on the snoot-- with just two fingers, like some of her hyena babies when they were messing the floor with someone's severed limb or otherwise being cute, but problematic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't even make her new permanently bulgified muscles stand out, not on her forearm, not on the big ol' monkeybarrels she now calls upper arms.  But it makes her playtoy yelp and sob, shattering cartilage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, his cock doesn't slack in the least.  It knows better already, but time to teach it some more.  Harley's foot flips the meaty tool up, ducking back so she can snatch it beneath her toes, instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He heals in seconds, and answers even as he does.  "You do," Waylon says, swallowing heavily.  Her foot runs up against his shaft, making him groan and judging it all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's right, Cock," she says.  Her voice is cold, but her fingers are more than strong enough to keep him resting against her thigh.  "It </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> set standards.  But I toldja-- I ain't lookin' to trap ya.  Ya used your tongue well.  Can ya use what ya got below as well?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She likes talking to him like this.  Even though she's still horny as fuck, having him just rest there, in her arms, obedient and honest and cringing, her super-developed musculature shifted so as to cradle his head almost as delicately as her fingers.  The thigh he's resting on is stronger than his entire body, more intricately striated than the bands of his scales.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he's safe there, if only he understood it.  Safe in his obedience.  Safe as her possession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He closes his eyes-- both layers, fascinating now that Harley can see through both.  She's used to finding adorable what others found ugly.  Her hyenas paid her back well for that; Mistah J… not so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Waylon just might.  "No," he admits honestly.  "No, I'm sorry mistress.  I was a selfish lover before the mutation… after, I didn't even get morning wood."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuckin' Tommy Elliot.  I'm really gonna hafta make a special note of him, ain't I?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She can't see him right now, so either he's gone splat already, is in some newly embiggened woman's personal lounge, or-- most likely-- he figured out the solid earth thing, and is hiding in a hole like the rat he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The growl makes Waylon cringe, but he's not stupid enough to try to pull away from her stroking fingers.  Or her caressing foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can use this,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she realizes.  She was already a bleeding edge psychologist when the Joker took her; his training perfected it.  Eventually, it would have split them, she's sure now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, as Hunter, the strings on Waylon's personality are so easy to see.  He shows them in how much he cringes-- and doesn't.  What he's greedy for, and what he fears.  Even his body language, snuffling, sore snoot, and lashing tail-- even that tells her his life's story.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And my little Slutty Cock is already so willin'.  It ain't gonna take much more.  Then I won't hafta play games to get this pretty dick ready for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This pretty, tough, </span>
  </em>
  <span>self-healing</span>
  <em>
    <span> dick.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her core clenches, abs and deeper muscles rippling.  She's so </span>
  <em>
    <span>horny</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"Waylon," she says sternly.  "I ain't gonna put up with substandard mooks.  But ya are my mook now, an' that means I'm gonna take care of ya.  Do you trust me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The red eyes open, and he swallows heavily.  "Mostly," he says, honest again.  "I can't help but fear you; most of the boldness was in the beast."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you trust me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head bobs in her hands, his whole body shifting around; even his dick leaps against the curl of her toes as if it was already within, doing its duty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Green scales move over a body Harley finds </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> acrobatic and delicious she almost just yanks him up to his proper place between her thighs then and there.  Muscles that once managed to make even </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> cautious, madcap as she was, now look so adorably lean and lithe that she wants to put him in a ballerina outfit.  And she will, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Later.  I need someone to make the tutu right.  Pink is not gonna be his color.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, Harley just lets the hugeness of her arms and the suppleness of her fingers control him.  Contain him and relax him.  "So you trust me to own yer croc, too, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You did from the moment I saw you, Mistress," he hisses softly, the membrane over his eyes nictating slightly.  "It wanted to roll over right then and there."  He's almost limp now-- except the cock, of course, stiffened by her toe's expert care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's not starting </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> anew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So-- here's how I'm gonna help ya be a good fuck, 'cos I'm nice like that."  Waylon perks up-- like one of her hyena babies ready for a treat.  … </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like a crocodile, actually, once I got 'em trained as a pack.  Best not to let Waylon know that, I think.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even his prick-- nice and fat enough in her estimation, honestly, at least as good as she's going to get from a stud not bred for the job-- even that stiffens further, throbbing harder against the brush of her foot against it.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Note to self: Claim Farmer Brown on the way outta Gotham.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm gonna bring your beast up to the fore, Waylon," Harley says softly.  Now he freezes, swallowing heavily--  but his dick, if anything, gets harder.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ahhh.  Yeah, you like being used like a beast, too, don'tcha?  Fear it and want it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, he does after she's primed him for it.  His fear is almost as delicious as the pain when she stopped him mid-cum, but it will make him too limp, too passive; she wants an active ride.  Her toes pick up speed, curling over him in time with the throb in her nipples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley purrs at the ophidian "behemoth" at her mercy; his shivering and the quaking within is perhaps the best yet.  "I got control," she says with a happy growl.  "That means I can keep the beastie side of ya down… an' bring it up.  Eitha way.  Follow?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon nods slowly, shuddering, his hips twitching with the need to gyrate against Harley's foot while his thighs pull back hard, responsive to that fear.  "You'll… You won't just bring that part of me back up.  You'll push this part of me back down."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," she groans, and can't help it now.  The muscular, chiseled surface of her inner thighs slick as her other hand relieves her clit's loneliness.  "Gonna get me a real </span>
  <em>
    <span>enthusiastic</span>
  </em>
  <span> ride, then bring ya back up t'get more think-y mook services outta ya.  I get the best of </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of you-- 'cos I deserve it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You do," he moans, "But…"  He cringes as much as he can, stuck in the cage of supple fingers and invulnerable quads.  Not that her other hand is idle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's new toy is left with a ringside seat as her pussy gushes, the pink petals reacting to her expert self-care.  "I'm afraid," he admits.  "That it will be like the swamp, but worse-- that I'll never be me again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every muscle on his body goes as taut as it can manage; nothing that can even dimple her skin, but nearly as cute as the fear itself.  Or the hungry flick of his tongue, desperate to reach her sex but locked down fast by that very same fear.  And awe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley concentrates, making her already macelike calf bulge.  It draws the attention of the squirming atavist, making him watch in terror as hardness and intricate combinations of bulges and grooves demonstrate her power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using just a tithe of that, she brings her toes in tighter, slowly ratcheting up the pressure on the big lug's dick.  Not enough to even bruise-- yet-- but enough to make him hiss.  "You get this lesson just once, Croc," she says with a body-deep chuckle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The echoes of it, her low, pleased laughter, roll through exquisitely striated pectorals and jiggle through enormous mammary mountains.  It makes her armored abs grind and squeeze together, crashing upon each other and releasing in her… mirth.  And it makes her enormous quadriceps </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud</span>
  </em>
  <span> out, sudden, stark relief of stone-hardness slamming against his trapped skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You trust me, because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>say so,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she snarls.  "If I wanted ya dead, you'd be dead.  If I wanted ya croc-- forever-- who'd stop me?  You?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"N-no!" Waylon yelps, tongue flicking out again, this time in hissing terror.  His shaft, juicy and thick with arousal, quivers and throbs helplessly against her toes and the ball of her foot.  Helplessly and harder, stiffening and growing despite what he'd thought of his… capacities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley smirks, and begins to stroke her foot up and down again.  Still slowly, still careful to make him feel endless pleasure, but making sure that unyielding pain accompanies it.  "So remember," she whispers.  "Man or Croc…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm just… your Slutty Cock," he moans, membranes nictating tight around his eyes as tears squeeze out-- but he can't bring himself to stop looking at her pussy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a good thing, too.  Sweat collects over flexing muscles.  Her orgasm is near-- and she's the only thing holding his at bay.  "And?" she asks, relentless.  She can feel it in him-- but she wants his word.  His surrender.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And I like it!" the green-scaled man howls.  It's at that moment that two releases occur, together with her fingers locking over Waylon's jaw.  His cock, uncontrolled, shoots a thicker splatter of jizz than he's ever managed before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his jaw locked by just the flex of her fingers, there's nothing the atavist can do in her superior strength.  He can't taste her sex as it spasms, climaxing so close with all that delicious Hunter honey flowing.  She cums, but he's caught-- both climaxes are for her alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley takes her time with it, fingering herself through her orgasm.  Exposing her new pet to the strength of her leg, of her hand.  Thighs like treetrunks keep him trapped in a vice while the sex he yearns to taste ripples on without him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Waylon stays hard throughout it all, just on his lonesome.  She rewards his addiction to her power and her pleasure; his climax completes, without a hint of stifle.  The red eyes that stare up at her-- mostly her chest, but in her face's direction-- are almost completely unfocused, but what focus they have…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is on Harley Quinn.  It makes her smile; more, it makes her horny.  "I want my ride now," she orders him, pulling her hand and foot from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He scrambles back wordlessly, stunned by her control of him.  But it's the man that's stunned.  She wants the beast.  Now that the man inside won't be sabotaging the beast's submission anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Give me my </span>
  <em>
    <span>croc</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cock," she snarls-- and lunges at Waylon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's never any hope.  She hooks her broad, brawny body carefully through the air, spiraling into her intended position to avoid a sonic boom-- and the damage to her pet.  No time to waste on healing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley takes him from standing on his feet to lying flat on his ass in less than the blink of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>eye.  A sweep of her long left leg does for his feet.  The limb, undulating with massive muscles, crisp, tight grooves, and an agile whole, is perfectly controlled by the web of tertiary muscles, each linking and tugging to better re-direct her strength without destroying her far weaker prey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't even get the chance to fall on his own.  She catches him before gravity can do much more than realize his new situation.  He's safe there, against the coiled, spiralling bulges of forearm muscles and the flat, firm breadth of her hands, carried to his back with legs together, arms flat…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And dick waving high, the girthy length throbbing and pulsing precum all over the place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like it messy," Harley hisses.  She stares right into those beady red eyes of his.  Lets him feel the ferocity in her-- her savagery.  "Now.  Give me th'</span>
  <em>
    <span>beast!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her ferocity is that of a Hunter-- constantly full of thought, running above and below the uncountable threads of her multitasking towards a single, unified whole.  Keeping track of what she can see of the world, watching his vitals and his very organs down to the cells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In short, it's a person's savagery, neither bound in mazes by flailing, dithering thoughts, nor leaving her so overloaded on her horniness she can't make active decisions for the long-term.  What Waylon has is nothing like that.  Not even its mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a barely functioning-- and not by much-- solitary consciousness.  A single mind, barely able to integrate multiple tasks together-- the track and the run and the snap, or two hands fighting against the same target on the same objective.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beast's anger, and a beast's horniness.  The latter, inflamed; the former, dominated.  It's Killer Croc who roars when he finds himself on his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc whose roar turns into a whimper, neck and muzzle turning rapidly to the side just at the sight of his owner.  He can barely see the majority of it, tensing in her breast-concealed pecs or radiating across her traps, but it's there.  Her shoulders are oriented towards him, grasping hands ready--- legs slightly apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The croc knows that the mating must serve this dominant female, and has </span>
  <em>
    <span>none</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Waylon's hesitations.  He just lies straight back for the moment, lithely bulky leg muscles throbbing as they're clamped together.  His balls rest on the smoothness of his scales, swelling with need as the whole beast shivers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again she flashes forward, unwilling to wait at all.  She half-pounces over him, her broad right leg striking the padding to left of his head, giving him quite the view of the taut, immense power of her calf again.  Her left leg comes up, not quite a splits, not quite a crouch, shoving under the side of his flat hips to push him up as she sinks down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anticipation-- and domination-- has its rewards.  The moment Harley takes him within the heat of her core, she cums.  Just feeling him pass within, surrounded and conquered by the strength of her tunnel-- it's too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her palms strike down on Croc's taut little pecs, so slender in comparison.  The motion compresses the excessive curvature of her firm breasts adding to the pleasure.  He howls to meet her, arching his back and instinctively bringing his arms up to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So cute," she moans, carefully controlling the pressure in her sex.  The wave of her climax threatens to completely crush her Croc's cock, and she won't have that.  So, eyes rolling back in her head, breath coming in heavy pants that send her barrel-sized, heavily banded upper arms squeezing harder against her breasts, she tightens down with her abs, squeezing herself while squeezing him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mistress!" the Croc moans, some speech to the beast after all.  His claws scrabble and hold on what little purchase he can make on her rippling triceps, the heavy prominences hard as stone and big enough he's almost slipping free.  But she shakes her head-- then nods towards her rapidly bouncing breasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obedient-- if not very bright-- is the bestial side of Killer Croc, but he gets the point.  His clawed hands make freer with her heavy breasts than his human side would have dared.  "That's my Cock," she croons, pulling him up towards her with her muscular sex's contractions.  "You know ya can't harm me, don'tcha?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The swift-thrusting gyrations of Croc's hips, shifting his shaft up and down as much as the tight grip of her cunny will permit, is answer enough.  "Yeah, ya do, an' ya know how to make that work for ya," she growls down at him, drowning out his most savage snarls of ecstasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He obeys, his fingers digging as deep against the soft, dense mass of her heavenly tits as they can.  There's no chance of pinching, let alone anything worse, but there are plenty of Harley-pleasing nerves in those big boobs.  She teaches him with her body, rewarding his cock's thickness with a fresh wave of expert squeezes whenever he strokes that sensitive breastflesh just right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And punishing his cock with her sex's strength, squeezing precum and screams out of him with one corewards flex of her muscles.  He keeps on answering her cries every bit as enthusiastically.  The enthralled bellow of pleasure, and the ardent, if inexpert massage of his hands over her breastflesh-- it's a nice little corollary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trapped entirely by the I-beam heft of her right leg and the impervious wall of her left thigh, what else can he do but thrash around for her?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, I got some ideas…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her right toes orient inward, grinding her bulging right calf against Croc's shoulder, pushing his body up even harder against her needy pussy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Up-- up a bit," she groans, squeezing her fingers tight on his chest.  Her forearms vibrate under her taut, pale skin, bruising his scales and pressing the sides of his chest together.  The swing of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> hips, vast and deliciously padded, forcing his cock in a broader motion makes part of her will clear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't have to tell Croc the rest; he works it out that she wants his hands moving in broader circles too.  The Croc-- and Waylon-- may not have been the most giving lovers, but the capture of his cock and the light crushing of his body make him a fast, eager learner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squeeze, hip-roll, clench, repeat.  "More!" Harley cries, flexing her pecs and swinging her heavy knockers back against his grasping hands.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With her pet making increasingly accurate clit-grinding humping motions up into her greedy sex, she uses her core's strength to reward him.  Her body is under her control, the wet, squeezing tunnel wringing his precum out deep inside the folds' pressure.  And so, through her body… his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Croc runs his fingers over her breasts, stroking and caressing them frantically-- like he's lost in them, just above his body.  Her pleasure is an even greater prize than his own, and soon, he's in a rhythm, circling closer and closer to her nipples.  Building up sensation upon sensation while his hips keep pounding up within her power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile flashes across Harley's face as she lets out longer, lower moans of pleasure, and the Croc responds, whipping his body faster and faster around, the better to fill her.  Sweat falls from the Hunter as she dominates her beast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It drops like rivers to a waterfall to rain, outlining the beautifully developed musculature, pooling on the male trapped within her and between her legs, splashing off the sides and marking him almost as much as the gush of femmejuices around his cock marks his groin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley pants again and again, repeating, "More!" and "Deeper!" and then just wordless groans and snarls of her pleasure, her next set of climaxes coming fast on the heels of the first.  He joins her this time, and she lets out a half-shocked, half-delighted cry of </span>
  <em>
    <span>"YES!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" as she feels him spill his seed into her womb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feels his shaft surrender its load to her, splurting its essence and emptying those fat balls, just to give her more pleasure.  His cock is a prisoner, and his orgasms, every bit as much his submission as his titty-massaging hands.  More, the hold of her sex denies him even the smallest refractory period, the ecstasy too great for anything but the next thrust to earn the next squeeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her palms shift on him, lighting up on the bruising pressure some to let him get more room to keep thrusting back against her, bouncing the top of his shaft off her stiff clit each time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's almost no time between one of Harley's climaxes and the next.  Her slave wriggles and thrashes helplessly between her legs, keeping up a steady pounding into the pussy that holds his cock captive and his mind enthralled.  She licks her lips, toes really curling now; no refractory period for </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> Killer Cock, just constant submission to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her pigtails bounce and she throws her head back, crying out, "Ahhhhh!" as an even harder climax shoves the slowly building orgasm from before out of its way.  She has no choice; her sex bears down even harder on her poor Croc's cock.  He squeals-- and joins her in a second climax, mere moments after his balls had spent themselves already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"Oooh," she pants, making sure to squeeze her glutes together harder with each swing of her hips over him.  "My beasty Croc likes th'pain of his mistress' pleasure, huh?"  Her question is accompanied by another example-- by Harley bearing down harder over his spasming shaft, his balls somehow finding the way to supply an even </span>
  <em>
    <span>thicker</span>
  </em>
  <span> sperm-load up into her… just for how roughly she treats him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she keeps it up.  Now, she speeds up rolling her hips, pounding back down onto his cock.  Her multipack abs roll with them, and to either side, quads and hamstrings swell out dangerously, muscle building upon muscle with every new flex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet… Killer Croc is completely safe.  She takes full advantage of his suddenly implanted taste for masochism, letting her pussy ripple harder, her thighs squeeze more, and her hands grab his chest harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She even flexes out the heavy bands of her pecs, making her breasts grow and harden, pounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>back</span>
  </em>
  <span> at his eagerly caressing hands.  "Gimme </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cock!" she demands.  But she makes him love it, every moment of pain accompanied with a new rush of pleasure from the manipulation of her sex upon his captive cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe he is-- no matter how much he must pay for her pleasure and for his, she won't harm him permanently.  She's not even pushing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>boundaries</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his regeneration-- just making him live the rough life for her.  His torso is curled forward as far as her palms' pressure permits-- not close enough for his tongue to quite make it to her tits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how much the Croc tries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he's just trying to watch her.  He doesn't have her penetrating, all-encompassing sight.  Drooling, he has to shift and crane his neck, still grunting, "Unfs!" over and over again as he keeps up the pistoning into sex and against stiffness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Has to keep moving, more than simple squirming for her sex.  He has to see her in motion.  Killer Croc worships Harley's killer quads with his eyes, moving his body in unconscious time with her flexing.  As she screams, "Yes!" again and again, creaming hard atop his cock, his eyes wander over the breadth of her powerful biceps and triceps-- like someone stuck beachballs in her arm and inflated them with the pure essence of power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's drawn by the hypnotic motion, even more ophidian than his best, the pythonic subsections of her muscles curling and dancing around as she works him over.  Howling and panting, drool rolling out of the corners of his befanged maw, he learns how to multitask-- how to keep his eye on her musclebound </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> while pleasuring her as best his hands and prick can provide.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That's quite a lotta lot of providin', too!  Waylon's gonna make such a perfect studpet-- I'm </span>
  </em>
  <span>never</span>
  <em>
    <span> lettin' him go.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Harley howls back at him, her bellows larger than his, just like her muscles and her strength.  The lick of his tongue across dry lips and between gleaming fangs, coupled with the curl of his toes and his heels digging against the padded floor, the better to keep himself pounding up into her controlling cunning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mind is in full control of every element of her body, but it's definitely her pussy providing the most power over him.  Safe from the full effect of her legs shifting out beside and beneath him, the better to force him into herself, Killer Croc nonetheless gets to feel her tunnel squeeze and tug and practically yank his dick right into her heated depths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She still has to take some care, amidst all the triumphant yells and moaning, lest her core tighten too much, demand too much, or release too much for the poor metahuman to handle.  But she takes care of him, just like he takes care of her.  Every surrendering thrust, every pleasured writhe is repayment for her conquest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last climaxes cum together.  Harley's roar of pleasure shatters the already broken-walls to Joker's cell, and her pussy tugs greedily on her beast's shaft-- milking it for her pleasure.  Seed splatters up inside her, accompanied by howls from the Croc, his eyes hazy, indistinct as the euphoria trance guides him through.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>S'a good thing, too,</span>
  </em>
  <span> a part of her thinks while the rest feasts on pleasure.  Croc's balls almost can't take it any more; his nerves are desperate to report pain, she can see it.  The breadth of his dick is pleasing, but so is the agony transmuted into submission from having her sex squeeze so tight.  If she didn't have him this far down, she's not sure he could stand at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aaaaand her penetrating vision detects she may have done a little damage to his hips on that last ride.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oopsies.  Just glad I was holdin' back from the regen-squishin'.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her body dominates his like her will conquers his, but she's only so willing to feast on his pain.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>When I'm full, time t'put the plate away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An' wash.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her pussy's final gift, what would have been a squirt, releases over him slowly as she starts to bring her outstretched back together and rise.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Feels so good...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggles a bit, a last, satisfied groan parting as she unclenches from her abs in, letting Croc's cock fit snug rather than viced.  He whines-- leashed to her pussy's pleasure-- when she sits back up, pulling her mega-amazonian body half-off his poor, overused dick.  "Shhh," she commands, and he tries, he really does.  "Jus' watch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her arms pull up, making the shapely heft of her tits jiggle between them, holding his vision.  Her fingers lace into her still-damp hair, then stroke down over the corded lines of her neck.  "Watch," she repeats, her hands going back further and further until her palms cross, just below the traps' top swell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rises once more, good and slow; no whimpers from Croc now-- just watching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she turns her head to the side, smiles just a bit at her slave, and flexes </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It starts from her forearms, out of his sight but a pleasant burn, in synch with her triceps, bulging out big and brawny-- locking him in.  His hips flex again, and though she's relinquished her hold, abruptly, he's achingly stiff one last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Croc gyrates up, claws now scratching the padded floor beneath, but he mostly just drools, watching her triceps' long, undulating lines of power.  "There's more," she promises, and so there is; as she pulls off nearly to the tip, the flex moves into her delts, their ridges of powers pushing out to show to either side of her still-swelling arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The delts are joined by her traps; her traps, by her pectorals, locking her tits stiffly down against her chest and growing </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span> just like the flexion makes the striated pecs leap out.  Behind her breasts' mountainous, jiggly weight, the intercostals between each rib start to swell out too, a new layer hardening and expanding with every centimeter of cock she frees.  By the time it's visible to someone who </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span> see through her own tits, her still-engorged labia are "kissing" around his still-dribbling crown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet he feels no pain, the trance sustained by the hypnotic power of her muscles.  Flexed out like this, virtually her whole upper body on display, he doesn't know where to look.  The beast is confused and yet ecstatic, head lolling around trying to get the perfect angle for each individual muscle, tongue slid out to the left of his jaws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm-- oooh, here's a last gift, Crocky," she purrs.  It's a bit mean of her; he's still going to be sore from this.  But stil…  "Or rather, I mean-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Waylon</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Cum back to me, scaley boy.  Cum back to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Then she tightens up her abs.  Powerful, broad, perfectly shaped with rigid definition, the shredded strength in utter relief.  Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Harley's upper bod is showing off-- from her neck to her shoulders to her chest to her arms, parallel to her tits to her ribs to her belly.  The man in her slave returns…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To a final orgasm, splattering up over her pussy, his awareness bringing with it a return of pain… but engulfed in pleasure.  His mind lost contemplating every groove and every band of muscle, every prominent, pushed-out pump of strength.  Fractal power, the muscles locking into each other, perfectly melding to form the gorgeous, powerful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dominant</span>
  </em>
  <span> whole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It knocks him out, but that's a kind of mercy, too.  On his way out, Harley drags him up to her chest, and kisses his forehead.  "Yer mine now, Killer Croc, Waylon Jones.  You will obey me, and I will keep you safe.  You will please me, and I will use you for my pleasure.  You will be my pet, and I will nurture you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sees his brain completing the trip into slumber, and lets him rest on the safety of her oaths.  "You will be my slave, Waylon, and I will protect you from true harm-- even from me.  You will </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> come back to the man.  Always."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yep.  He's out.  Now to finish my collection… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Got a muscle mook.  Now, I need someone smart enough to arrange th'rest.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Harley Quin has relayed the tale of taming the Thriller Cock.  Er, Killer Croc.  His strength is bound in service and submission to her even more tightly than the metal collar around his throat.</p><p>Now it's Ivy's turn to demonstrate her strength.  Her dominance; for as Harley's concubine and prime submissive, she has the honor and duty of taking care of Harley's other pets.  So she displays the full marks of Harley's power, embodied in her expanded flesh.</p><p>Waylon is only so jealous, but that's enough to give her an opportunity to moll him the way Harley desires... and with as much gentleness as his by-now willing and total submission to Harley deserves.</p><p>Noah Kuttler, on the other hand...  The Calculator, whatever trip he took to becoming Harley's collared brainybitch, still thinks he has a way out.  Still thinks he can avoid being taken.</p><p>Which means he's a threat to Harley's stability, and Ivy will.  Not.  Permit.  That.</p><p>Time to serve, and the same method with which she rewards Harley's cock-Croc...  Will work to finish taming the Calculator.  Just a little bit harder.</p><p>Or perhaps, a bit harder yet still than that.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In the Diner, After a Somewhat Intricate Story…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, he's just a doll once you get past all th'scales," Harley smirks, and whistles.  "And so sweet with the recognition of who kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mistah J</span>
  </em>
  <span> afloat the last coupla times, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling but with a bit of an unsteady wobble, the green-scaled Waylon Jones struggles to his feet.  His hips are still stiff, the displacement and cracking of being Harley's meat healed, but he feels her power still.  Muscles pump on him, scales sliding over their lithe bulk.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once, he was one of the ones I always had to factor in,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy remembers, bemused.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>If I had him, I was safe, and I had a key lever to apply force with.  Now… Now I am as strong in body as in the Green, and bound to Mistress Harley, my Harl, by our love-- and otherwise, her oaths and mine alone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Killer Croc's mind and dick and body have all been thoroughly beaten into shape.  They all leash him to Harley's whim-- not just fear, but pleasure, hunger, even ambition belongs to serving her.  Other than his hard-on, he's wearing nothing but a metal collar-- with clear fingerprints on it that Ivy is pretty certain match those of one Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The healing continues, but by the spacey, giddy expression on his face, he's not feeling the lack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whistle wasn't needed to make his cock bounce free and hard between thighs not quite so muscular as Ivy's.  It thrills Ivy, a little victory awarded to her in service.  She can barely see the old looming figure of threat and power he used to be; he's grown no smaller, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley just sits, waiting.  But a few centimeters taller than Croc, he still looks like-- like Harley used to be.  A slender acrobat, bouncing between the heavyset minions of the Joker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's no smaller in size, but he is rightfully diminished just by being in the presence of Harley.  All that muscularity, all that sculpted power, curved and grooved together into a frame that defines what strength </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- there's no contest.  And Ivy… Ivy is her herald, every bit as much as the Green's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ripples in the pond, the reflection in the mirror, the image cast so that subordinate, foe, or potential ally will know: this is the might of Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's smile and eyes widen, as she curls her hands into fists and curls her arms beneath her lush breasts.  When she walked in the door, certainly, she was stronger than Killer Croc from the Quorum's gift, but in </span>
  <em>
    <span>form</span>
  </em>
  <span>, merely competition for the behemoth.  Now, though still nearly thirty centimeters shorter-- almost a whole foot!-- Ivy's arms have the greater development and definition both </span>
  <em>
    <span>before</span>
  </em>
  <span> she starts to flex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she even brought fingers into fists.  Now, brushed up against her love's side, tit lightly pressing to tit, now Ivy's biceps and forearms peak out, mountains to Harley's Everests, but still mountains to Croc's mere hills.  Her triceps are firmer and broader; the ripples of muscle pressing out and along from shoulder to shoulder and rising to the neck in the middle-- all the greater.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost stops Croc in his tracks, but is Ivy not her Harl's concubine?  Without surrendering too much flexion, Ivy's fists uncurl, just a bit, turn knuckles to face Croc, and her fingers flick back.  To Ivy, to Ivy's breasts-- but most importantly, to Harley's feet, where he belongs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Beautiful," Waylon groans, and Ivy is all the more delighted in the Hunter she serves for it.  It is Killer Croc the man who slinks forward, juicy cock bouncing between his thighs, his mind awake and partially aware in its euphoric trance-- but full of a need to serve Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>should</span>
  <em>
    <span> be hard,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks smugly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My mistress is here-- and my new expansion is </span>
  </em>
  <span>her</span>
  <em>
    <span> gift, shown on every part of my body.  If nothing else…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy suppresses a giggle, but can't stop her toes curling.  The lovely, straight shaft and its unending erection worried her a bit before.  But hey, thirty centimeters of height came with a lot more girth for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.  Her eyes widen as she leans towards him, arching her back to thrust out her lewdly generous tits-- and to better show off her once-more expanded pecs, beefy and ripped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes-- Waylon is definitely dumbfounded and all but drooling precum just looking at muscle-mistress and musclebound concubine.  Ivy juts her chin forward slightly, letting the old-growth hardness of her neck and trapezius show herself off.  His walk grows unsteady, fanged maw dropping lower and lower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy squirms to see it, wriggling closer to Harley, who watches the preening and stumbling with a slight, bemused shake of her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tryin' to make my beasty-boy jealous, sweetie?" Harley asks with a laugh that sets her breasts bouncing about-- right into Ivy's, setting off a jiggle wave that would leave most men-- most women, for that matter-- on their knees and masturbating.  The Croc's been better trained than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It does make him groan as the tip drools pre-- an almost Pavlovian response.  He moans it into more of a whimper Harley's smirk turns into a glare.  He knows where he's supposed to be and when-- by her side, already, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Just a little bit, Mistress," Ivy says with a laugh, and kisses her on the nose.  "I keep wanting to call you Mistress Peanut," she confesses, blushing bright red.  "I just… I feel all that aggression, all that unrivaled drive to control and master-- mistress, I suppose-- and I want to show it off for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do?  Please?" Harley asks softly, and Ivy disciplines herself not to cry out at the loneliness shared.  "I needja to be my Pammie, my Ivy, an' my Red."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy inhales deeply, her chest rising as her pectorals tighten even further.  Then, slowly she exhales, laughing and throwing her arms around Harley's broad neck once more, kissing her love on the cheek.  "Fine," she laughs.  "Mistress Peanut it is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>despite</span>
  </em>
  <span> what that will sound like…  Because you want me to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley ignores Waylon as he lurches himself over as fast as he can, almost falling from the agony yet floating on the ecstasy of obedience.  She kisses Ivy possessively.  "'Cos I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> you to.  And yeah, yeah, you were right.  It wasn't me, an' I knew it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods at Croc.  "I knew it by the time I had this Cock in me, just…"  Broad, powerful shoulders shrug.  "It's so easy ta want t'just swallow ya all up.  I wanted ya safe from me, Ivy.  Not… endin' up like him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heavy breaths escape his reptilian muzzle, drool filtering through long, sharp fangs, and precum following him like his dick was drawing a trail.  Utterly obedient, utterly focused, utterly aroused.  But this isn't the beast; there's a slight, smug curl to the horny man's grin.  Devoted-- but aware.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It wouldn't be too bad," Ivy says softly, and kisses her owner-beloved on the lips now.  "But… it's not what I'm here for."  She chuckles, and hipchecks Harley across the seat.  She bounces off the bigger woman's impossibly strong body, of course, jiggling just a bit harder.  "I'm here to be for you what you were for me so many times."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You gonna start makin' me scream and laugh in frustration all at th'same time, an' give up world domination, just t'be happy?"  Harley scrunches her nose, and wraps a powerful arm over Ivy's shoulders.  "Thought I'd be the one getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> t'scream… in something other than frustration."  She raises an eyebrow, then wriggles both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy blushes a bit, rose-heat running over her throat.  "Well," she says softly.  "Maybe I can give you the screaming, too-- but I meant, Mistress Peanut, someone who kept my heart sane even in the insanity that was the Gotham underworld."  She places a hand over Harley's heart, her own sturdily-grown arm laying across the obscenely opulent cushions of Harley's breasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley kisses her fiercely, holding her tight while Waylon waits upon the pair of them-- trying and failing not to stare.  The pleasure drives Ivy to groan into the kiss, her hips squirming and her thighs soaking as Harley's love and her own reinforce, physical affection and emotional union pulsing through Ivy's body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to her surprise, Harley breaks the kiss, strokes Ivy's cheek, chuckling lightly and running her fingers through Ivy's wild red hair.  Ivy can feel Harley's amusement in their bond, and its purpose flows so hard into Ivy that her sex clenches and shudders as though being fingered.  She smiles a bit, arching her back as </span>
  <em>
    <span>intent</span>
  </em>
  <span> fills her; her amazonian body dances against the musclebound goliath that is her beloved.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What-- and whom-- I dominate, I dominate for her.  Who-- and what-- I fuck, I fuck for her.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "Entertainment, Harl?" Ivy asks softly, turning to look at Waylon speculatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans in as close as the difference in their heights allows.  "Shall I moll for you?"  Harley giggles a bit, and Ivy winks, adding, "Call it an extended audition-- since I'd like to be getting onto a casting couch with you best…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon shudders a bit, but blushes, looking down at the floor.  He's still a little bit broader in the back than Ivy-- at least shoulder to shoulder, though Ivy's got more fill.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He looks good that way,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy is glad to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kneeling.  Aroused.  Waiting to be used.  And Hush's viciousness gone forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley laughs, and turns to kiss Ivy again, the touch of their lips making Ivy's nipples throb nearly as hard as her clit.  "Y'gotta remember, he's earned his place at my feet, Pammie."  The slight tap of Harley's finger to Ivy's nose doesn't even sting, even though it's every bit as hard as Waylon got.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, as Waylon is, Ivy bows, waiting to be used.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither afraid; their mistress isn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- just commanding.  Just keeping Croc in the trance and Ivy on her toes.  Ivy, keyed up and tingling with the constant stream of sensory and emotional overflow from her beloved Hunter; Waylon, bound up in obedience and lust, unable to become bored or impatient.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy kisses Harley's cheek.  "I have to help keep you more Harley than Hunter, it's true," she says softly, then kisses down the corded strength of Harley's neck.  "But you really do have a lot of that under control yourself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The big Hunter groans as Ivy's tongue teases over sensitive little spots that haven't changed-- except, perhaps, to become </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> responsive, if Harley's sudden gush is any indication.  "Does that mean you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> want me to… feed you, my love?" she whispers.  If that's what it takes, that's what it takes, but she has some ideas about how to show off…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah," Harley chuckles, and turns to kiss her full on the lips.  "I want t'see you play, my prettyful poinsettia.  Just remember: promises."  Harley may be fed, but now Ivy is an extension of her dominance; a root extending from the same powerful tree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which means that Ivy is an extension of Harley's promises. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Quorum is right.  Even implied oaths-- just saying something, it makes it so, for these Hunters.  And mine the most beautiful of them all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She's aware she may be biased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning, Ivy kisses Harley gratefully, her fingers stroking over the bigger woman's broad, broad shoulders.  "Thank you, mistress.  May I show you how grateful I am-- on them?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley frowns.  "When they </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> get ova here.  Kuttler?  Chop-chop!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator, looking a lot less fit, and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> less most things except a lot </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> terrified, and at least as hard as Killer Croc, takes longer to scrabble over.  In fact, he earns a sadistic laugh from Harley, falling to his knees twice before making it to them.  The mercy that spared Waylon's pathetic life-- and handsome cock-- does not seem to be found for the Calculator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, since Harley has to see the same… skittishness in him Ivy does, it's entirely probable that Kuttler hasn't gone looking for it.  Not the right way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator's collar is the same steel, biting into his merely human skin more harshly than Croc's scale-like epidermis.  They're both leashed; the Calculator, on a fairly standard "heavy breed" leash, Waylon's with a long chain attached to the loop Harley folded in front.  Not a bowtie, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Noah tried to evade the mistress,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy decides, feeling Harley's still-smoldering ire.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Foolishness; can't you calculate she's not alone?  Even with how harshly she uses you, you'll survive, but your use could have been more cerebral…  Now you're going to be chewed on a bit more than the rest of us.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That makes you a danger to keeping my Mistress Harl my Harley-love, Noah.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her eyes meet his, and he cringes away from the ferocity, only lesser than Harley's by scale.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will remember that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley kisses Ivy.  "Didn't know I'd have you, Pammie," she says softly.  "But if he'd just get with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>program</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Calculator can still be useful to me."  She chuckles.  "If."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah Kuttler winces, and turns his head away, kneeling alongside Waylon.  If Killer Croc looks like a slender acrobat to Ivy's short-but-built and Harley's divine muscle extravagance…  The Calculator looks almost like a living doll.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or a squirming worm.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He's tall, for a man- if only slightly-- making him tiny in this company.  But he's tiny of understanding, too, it seems.  Naked, collared, </span>
  <em>
    <span>leashed</span>
  </em>
  <span> by a Hunter-- his own constant erection proof of the power Harley has over him just by existing!-- and he's still pensive, craning his neck subtly from side to side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Ivy and Harley can see it together, Harley's superior senses feeding the tithe Ivy can handle as a sort of external knowledge-- like being able to see the Matrix's code, only in true life.  His thighs shift back and his back, while bowed, jolts at Harley's laughter with little flinches.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like a dog trying to see if he can move before the command's given.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator is still trying to find a way out.  Ivy can feel Harley's amusement with him, and a small bit of frustration.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, he's too weak to be broken fast, and his mind isn't as ready to obey as Waylon's.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The two men are a study in opposites in many ways.  Harley could be hard with Waylon, if still light by her own terms.  Forced to feel her full strength, but kept safe in his submission, the Croc is ensnared and entranced-- and happily horny for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feeds the mistress, and will be protected by her promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator's breakable body has been bruised and battered by Harley, and Ivy is looking forward to the story.  But she clearly had to use him lightly, laying the groundwork for total slavery to come.  So where the Croc's obedience is that of a fanatic, the Calculator's is begrudging, as though he thinks that any moment his time will come to </span>
  <em>
    <span>control</span>
  </em>
  <span> a being as wonderful as the Hunter named Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both ache, but the Croc isn't feeling it-- and Noah Kuttler thinks to escape it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy decides to reward their two forms of obedience on Harley's behalf.  She stands slowly, rolling her "short" body about in sinuous curves and lightning-fast ripples.  Oh yes, she's the shortstack compared to tall, skinny Waylon and Harley's immense, thew-rippling bod-- just under two meters of redwood-strong Poison Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of it curvaceous enough to still give the word meaning when compared with Harley's lushness.  Their senses are bound together; their emotions, entangled.  And ultimately, Harley's power mixes with the Green's in Poison Ivy.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's not metaphor or exaggeration to say my heart beats for her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilts her head back over her broad shoulder, blowing a kiss at her love.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And hers, for me, for a wonder.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Then Ivy rolls her full-figured hips and fuller-figured breasts back at her two fellow Harleyites.  Muscles pump and sway with the sinuous movements, her titian hair flipping back around and shaking like a willow's veil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her left hand extends, arm twisting and snaking at the Croc.  Amazonian muscles ripple along the length, in passive extension but still powerful, larger than the mightiest bodybuilder or metahuman of the lost world of yesterday.  Larger than Killer Croc's, for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whose jaw is open, mouth parted in a silent Oh of awe and hips already squirming to be used.  He only has to look at Ivy's subdermal collar, just above her powerful pecs, to know that she speaks with Harley's Hunger.  Crouching, shapely shaft throbbing all the more as his thighs spread, he holds the chain of his collar up to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't take it, just yet.  Still waggling her hips in slow, suggestive figure-eights, she pumps and flexes her pectoral muscles, making the striated breadths pump in and out, shaking her pillowy breasts about.  Harley can see through her, and Ivy no longer needs to turn around to see her beloved mistress chew on her lower lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nor to see Harley's left hand drift lazily down to her clit.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Entertainment is on,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks, and winks at the willing Waylon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall ophidian responds to Ivy's movements with a lash of the tail and a body-wide shudder, moving faster towards them.  She's honest with herself; she's always loved her power over others' bodies, and that she does so with Harley immune but appreciative…  Makes her core clench in time with her silent dance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy snakes her broad, broad hips back and forward, up and down, her shoulders rising and falling in s-squirms, her taut abs rolling in and out in short waves.  Her right hand twists and turns, flexing her built forearm and potent tricep just a bit.  Her fingers gesture towards the Calculator, who's actually staring at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Croc</span>
  </em>
  <span> in dumbfounded shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Poorly calculated, Noah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley frowns.  Her left hand's occupied circling her clit, but her right's just resting on the boothtop.  She shakes her head, snaps twice, and points at the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator at least understands he's Harley's bitch.  He moans, gasping, and falls right to his knees on command.  Ivy moves closer, and closer-- until she's close enough to caress Waylon's scaled forehead gently, her breasts swaying hypnotically enough to keep the euphoric former heavy occupied for the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Noah, she clenches her fist instead, raising her left eyebrow.  He's petrified at first, and if he wasn't acting far stupider than he should, she might be understanding.  After all, the fist that's in front of his face is sledgehammer-sized, and the clench makes Ivy's newly re-expanded muscles bulge out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First they tighten around her wrist, the green-skinned coils of interlaced extensors, flexors, and adductors blooming like a desert after rain.  The brachioradialis, the big bulge by the elbow, follows swiftly, rising like a grassy hill.  She doesn't even have to curl it back for the hulking power of her bicep to show off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It slaps the Calculator without touching him-- she'd have broken him with anything but a gentle tap even before Harley claimed her and triggered her growth dance-- and hits him hard with just how dire his choices are.  Shuddering, his puny muscles vibrating and veins standing out, he whimpers…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But at last obeys, holding his leash up to Ivy.  She smirks, rolling the strength and brawn of her shoulders about, timing it with the flex of her pecs to keep her tits jiggling and bouncing together.  Soon, his stare is as vacant as the Crocs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She keeps shimmying, because anaesthetising two of her fellow slaves is just a happy side-benefit.  It's their mistress for whom she wantonly displays her body.  Dancing her ass left and right for Harley, clenching and unclenching her glutes to clap the firm, juicy globes together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her shoulders may be acrobatic little things compared to Harley's, but as they move in time with Ivy's rump, Harley's panting speed up, and her scent settles all the thicker over concubine and slaves alike.  Ivy can't take the leashes yet-- can't!-- because she has to cum too hard.  "Harley!" she cries out, the smile on her face as blissful as either male's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course her pussy gushes; she feels Harley's fingers, she feels Harley's clit, and she feels Harley's Hunger.  She also feels the tenderness Harley won't shame her with, wondering if Ivy can withstand more of Harley's self love.  Ivy's pretty sure incorporating the squeezing clenches of her climax into her little dance makes clear her acceptance, even if her own thrilled emotions aren't enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her attention returns to the Croc and the Calculator, both entranced by her strength, her curves, and her reflection of Harley's splendor.  The Croc, a handsome beast, alien yet human enough where it counts-- especially the dick.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Slaves together.  But… I am her concubine.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's time to execute her duties.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not just to be fucked by her.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The thrill of it almost throws Ivy to her feet, quivering and shuddering.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>To feed her, to fuck her slaves and dominate them in her name.  Oh, Croc, I hope you're faster coming out of hibernation than you were before…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And Noah, I hope you learn fast.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy dances closer to the two men, taking their leashes in hand.  She snaps them like whips; not to injure either kneeler, but to make the lengths fly and flash in the air.  Twirling around beneath them faster than all eyes-- save the important pair-- can follow, she snatches just the right amount from the air before coming down on her knees as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between them, with her muscly-magnified arms over their necks, and their leashes along the lengths of their shoulders.  Her eyes meet Harley's, her head held high, showing her torc-growth's emblem off.  Harley tests her resolve, scooting further back in the booth, propping one enormous leg up along the top.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tests her resolve-- and her power over Croc and Calculator.  The move doesn't just both show off the enormous muscles and incredible curves of that taut, pale-skinned leg-- which would be enough to have the trio groaning in unison on its own.  And so they do, not to mention Ivy's perky-padded ass and strapping shoulders starting to swing back and forth between her captured comrades.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it of course flashes Quinn's </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> beaver-- Ivy really hopes she can convince Harley to stuff it more tastefu-- mount i… Ivy really hopes she can convince Harley to </span>
  <em>
    <span>store her taxidermist-doctored actual beaver properly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, wherever they end up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Erhem.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The move flashes Harley's pretty blonde-over-pink pussy, already slick with the products of her clit-work.  "Show me whatcha got with my boys, Pammie," she orders, her two fingers sinking past her clit while her other hand supports her chin.  Hunter that she is, Harley doesn't make it easy for Ivy, flexing and tightening her huge calf and quads in the same rhythm as her self-pleasuring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy wants to bury her face in that pussy.  Ivy wants to eat Harley out until they're both screaming in pleasure, Ivy collapsing and Harley holding her gently.  But Ivy is Harley's concubine and Bondmate.  She has the strength of will-- and the promise of shared sensory delights-- to hold onto both boys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Proud to, my love, my mistress," Ivy purrs.  Her shredded shoulders tense, the delts swelling and her traps tensing.  Thanks to the tithe of Ivy's power, she's at least not forced to </span>
  <em>
    <span>miss</span>
  </em>
  <span> watching every stroke of Harley's fingers whilst doing so, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two men are wakened from their trances by the shock of sudden pain across their necks.  As Ivy's shoulders press, and her back bulks out, the heavy power of her twice-endowed superstrength slaps down hard across the back of their necks-- forcing their backs and shoulders lower than Ivy's own.  Not to mention their heads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same motion jerks their collars to the side and back heavily by the tightening of their leashes.  Ivy's aim is threefold.  First: to produce the perfect tableaux for her bonded Hunter honey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her red hair drapes back over suddenly expanded, rippling breadths of smoothly green-skinned power.  Traps, lats, delts; the whole deal, even the smoother muscles beneath into crisp flexion.  Her traps especially; not just the canopy raising slightly and gracefully towards her neck, but a bas-relief tree-like etching of chiseled power, spreading across to her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The traditional most muscular wouldn't quite have her arms out that far, nor, usually, over fellow "contestants'" necks and shoulders.  But big, brawny biceps pushing </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> and powerful triceps shoving </span>
  <em>
    <span>back,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the interlaced bulges of her forearms locking tight around scaled and smoothed necks both, spiraling down to oak-hard fists-- that pleases the only judge that matters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Quinn.  To an extent, the whole pose is ridiculous.  Even sitting like she is, back curled casually against the wall of the diner, one leg up on the boothtop, and most of the tension in her coming from her fingers' dance and play over her clit-- even jilling off to the spectacle, she's far more jacked than Ivy and Croc combined.  It'd be a bit of an exaggeration to say she's quite as broad as the pair together-- but not by much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley's tastes, and not just in Quinn Quim-fondling, have been modified slightly. "Yeah, Red," she groans.  "Show th'boys who's my mid-boss."  Eyes open wide and dilated, pale skin flushed nearly as red as Ivy's hair, and her femmejuices pooling on the seat below--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a waste… save that their musk and her pleasure is making me nearly as tranced as Waylon!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>-- Harley is the boss of the mating bond, and Ivy her wimpy little toy.  But not her wimp</span>
  <em>
    <span>iest</span>
  </em>
  <span> little toy, and every bit of flower power Ivy exerts over man and beast is leashed to her.  Her love, her hands, her domination…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she just gets to sit back and enjoy the show.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Ivy's smile goes rictus wide; her canines hint of fangs (perhaps thorns).  Pumping your hips back and forth and squeezing your (too plump and bouncy for most shows) buttocks together as though you're being fisted by the judge isn't traditional to the most muscular pose either…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it wins her points.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leashes whip across both mens' backs, slapping down tightly as Ivy yanks them tight.  A red line of pain from chain and fabric suddenly bites from shoulderblade to shoulderblade on each.  The Croc moans happily, and snuggles in to Ivy's crushing headlock; the Calculator screams in agony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them nearly climax from the sudden loss of air and the sudden, muscular dominance, but Ivy expertly controls them.  Her grip on the leashes is just a little too short for them to make the circuit around the shoulders, but Ivy's holding them around her own elbows and fists anyway, her green skin unmarred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything else is bulging out on Ivy.  The increased abs, the powerful pectorals and their lovely-fat breast friends-- down to thicc and thickly-muscled thighs that-- if not as long as the Croc's-- are certainly beating him in the development and definition department.  Even her calves, round and striated around the edges, vibrate with the same force that her well-rooted feet push against the cracking diner floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wins her grunts, too, and gasps, and moans.  A shuddering pair of broad-set shoulders, heady-scented fluids rushing freely.  Once, just a cost of doing business, when necessary.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now-- when they're Harley's?  Treasure even beyond the shared sensation they herald, because they tell her even better than Harley's clenching abs and shuddering tits how close her mistress is to another climax.  Ivy intends she do so quite a lot through the show.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like… now.  She pulls harder on the leashes, making Croc's eyes grow even more vague in the subspace trance and making the Calculator cry out again.  Their suffering and submission feed Harley, and Ivy's voice is less than half a second behind Harley's in a shared "Yes!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy cums with and for Harley.  Harley could choose to choke her concubine out of the link like Ivy cuts air from the throats of the two men-- only easier.  But she shares with her Ivy, and so as she circles her clit faster and faster, and Ivy carefully crushes each man worse and worse, they cum together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It certainly makes Ivy's fleshy rump jiggle and shake, the powerful glutes within shaking and flexing like she was thrusting onto Harley's powerful fist.  Her curvaceous, flat-out obscenely sensual hips, slap from the Croc to the Calculator and back, making their own hips roll in unconscious imitation of Ivy's.  The big, dark pink of the Croc's cock and the smaller, aching length of the Calculator's bob back and forth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both are caught between two pairs of control stimulation.  The meaty strength of Ivy's part-plant and doubly empowered physiology stimulates them through control of their airflow and the power she exerts flesh to flesh.  But especially for Waylon, already locked in a state of euphoria, that could easily lead to them climaxing before Harley desires it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the shortness of the leash is a control all its own.  Without even touching their dicks, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>while</span>
  </em>
  <span> showing off her exquisitely chiseled arms in all their buff, broad glory, Ivy can easily inflict enough pain to keep them away from the brink of climaxing.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Which helps me with the other thing I'm aiming with, other than the sacred summoning of Harley's orgasms.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To give the Croc the fruits of submission, and to force the Calculator to grow into the same.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So second, to help Noah become a better slave; to reach in deftly and finish her beloved's seal upon him.  To enforce Harley's dominance over the Calculator.  It's a mercy, honestly-- for all Harley has better fine control, Ivy hasn't her intensity</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy can inflict the taming on him-- not as fast as Harley did the Croc, but still, faster than Harley might have had to, and yet preserve her mercy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beneath her arms, Croc and Calc continue to be a study in opposites.  The Calculator isn't bent as far over as Waylon, but he's short enough that Ivy's crushing muscles are pinching and compacting his jaw and the base of his skull on the one side, and his skinny shoulders on the other.  Tears run down the pasty man's cheeks, collecting like rainwater along the grooves of Ivy's hefty forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ivy!" Harley pants.  "Gimme more, gimme more, I'm so close!"  So she is, pleasure-fattened nether lips stroked swiftly by her talented fingers.  Every delight Ivy shows off for Harley is repaid, the resonance between her pussy and her mistress' unfiltered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Ivy leans forward slightly, kissing the Calculator's shuddering skull right below the hairline.  The green mark tingles not with her usual command or sleep toxins, but a mesmeric, slightly hallucinogenic drug.  The better to open him to the beauty of his new position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Remember this, as your world fades in and out, Noah," she moans softly to him.  "That pussy, right there?  Beautiful and blonde with its unique little dye job?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't even nod, just cough out, "Yrrrkk!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good.  Memorize that.  Remember the folds, the smoothness-- the </span>
  <em>
    <span>scent</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Noah," she whispers in his ear.  "Now… look up, no, not at the boobs for once."  Ivy bites his ear, just gently and leaving only two little marks on either side.  "Look at the shoulders, Noah.  Look at the frame, and the power that protects you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley smiles back at them, moaning and rocking herself back and forth in time with the plunge of two fingers into her wet depths.  Surprising even Ivy, she manages to make her delts and her traps bulge out, each muscle bigger than Ivy's for scale on a frame bigger than the Croc's for size.  Demonstrating said power while enjoying herself thoroughly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pale, taut-skinned leg that's propped up on the booth, flashing Harley's pretty pussy as she works it-- it's not longer than any of them, not like some of the big ladies out there tonight.  But the sheer muscularity to it, the shredded power undulating down in beautifully curved ridges and bugles-- it certainly looks like it </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be bigger than Noah Kuttler, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy kisses Noah's ear, right on the bite marks; it's not the most efficient place to deliver the mesmeric lipstick but it all absorbs.  He's so small-- not too many centimeters shorter than her, but so lowly and scrawny and small in some essential way.  "You're </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Noah.  You're smart enough to know that.  You're just a tiny worm.  You </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> her, don't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he suddenly moves his hips back and forth, his own pre joining the Croc's on the floor-- it's an answer far more than his strangled moan.  She strangles the moan a bit more, punishing the indiscretion-- or rather, reminding him of his place.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>After all, if part of me had my way, orgasming in Harley's honor would be a ritual event five times daily… at least.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Her beloved mistress quirks a grin at her.  Ivy can't quite hear Harley's thoughts the way a Hunter-mate might, but she can feel her emotions, her intent.  Harley </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> make out Ivy's thoughts, it seems-- the way her pupils dilate a bit and the way she scoots her gorgeous glutes forward a bit to show off more of her moist pink makes Ivy feel like Harley approves…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least a little.  Of Ivy's new… ceremonial inclinations, at least.  But even more, of how Ivy finishes the job of breaking down Noah Kuttler into a usable, useful bitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good," Ivy says when she releases Noah enough to gain a bare minimum breathing again.  Her chokehold isn't just there to restrain and punish.  By holding him on the edge of agony, and keeping his lungs desperate for air, his nostrils flaring and drinking in Ivy's scent--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which by now is permanently mixed with Harley's…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- he puts himself further and further into the suggestive state her self-generated lipstick works best within.  "Good," she repeats, but curls her fist tighter underneath him.  Her forearm already is bulging out big enough to make weightlifting gold champs think twice about calling their biceps </span>
  <em>
    <span>pythons</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but the additional pressure is aimed-- tilting the Calculator's head up further, so he's forced to look Harley in the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not in the eyes; the poor bastard doesn't have the strength to meet the Hunger of Harley Quinn head on.  The utter domination of the Calculator feeds her, but it makes her stronger, too.  She's hit her own first little climaxes now, chewing on her lower lip as pleasant little ripples and clenches send muscles into flexion all over her body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's glad her mistress is enjoying the sights, but she has so much more to give her love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Now," Ivy instructs.  "Look at </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  This is the Hunter you would flee.  No, don't lie," she says sharply, as Noah begins to frantically-- and uselessly-- pull back against the ferocious lock.  He does about as much good as though she'd grown an oak around him-- with even less chance of moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>lie</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Noah.  She knew it when she lead you in on the leash; I knew it when I saw you </span>
  <em>
    <span>squirm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, little worm."  Ivy's voice is a hissing whip, cracking over Noah Kuttler's intoxicated mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We both knew it, and all you're earning for yourself is more suffering.  I want you to consider this-- all the damage I'm doing to you, I'm going to inflict on Killer Croc equally.  But Noah…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"Mrmrmfff!" the Calculator tries to howl.  It's a terrified, tiny voice, and more tears drip to Ivy's chlorophyll-filled skin.  Harley and Ivy lick their lips in synch, Harley's slight smile growing wider, her fingers thrusting deeper into clenching folds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Waylon will feel none of the pain you will.  Waylon will drift, dreamily, no drugs except for the twin pussy-musks that own you both anyway.  Being dominated by me will </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasure</span>
  </em>
  <span> Waylon… and that' s why, when Harley gives the order, you're both going to cum…  But he's going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoy</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, and you, Noah… you will suffer, even when the ecstasy rips through you.  Do you know why, Noah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scrawny little man weeps and struggles, but at last just hangs his head.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not good enough,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks coldly, and begins to tighten the lock until he half-screams, half-whispers a negative.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>You have to admit, each step of the way, how helpless you are, Noah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you still think you're going to get away.  You still think you're going to come out on top, or at least be a grey eminence again.  You're not."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She keeps him pointed at Harley, whose own little mini-climaxes are keeping </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ivy's</span>
  </em>
  <span> mind (and sex) in euphoria as well.  At her face, not at the fingers that Ivy can feel, her own lucky petals stimulated with each expert stroke over Harley's own.  "The age of heroes and villains is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  That's the face of the new era, Calculator.  This is for your own good, and it doesn't end until you understand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mrrrf?"  The tone is dejected; humiliated; broken.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The next crack.  Excellent.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  However Harley took him, it broke an entire lifetime of being his own boss, manipulating superhuman and supervillain alike.  All Ivy has to do is the fine detail work.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am her hand.  Sometimes that means fisting, but she's taken care of the hard work better than I ever could.  Little Noah will do better being fingered for a while, anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy can meet Harley's eyes-- how not?  She sees out of them, in some respect, and everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ivy</span>
  </em>
  <span> sees is affected and influenced by them.  Eye to eye to eye to eye, vision to vision, sense to sense, they commune.  Mistress and switch-bitch; lover and submissive; beloved and beloved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They breathe in synch but not in parallel; Ivy prefers to think of it as drinking in the breath that Harley gives her.  She's part plant, after all; she could well live on her lover's voice, Harley's smile for sunlight, and other sources of </span>
  <em>
    <span>nourishment</span>
  </em>
  <span> all from her majestic, musclebound mistress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're a slave, Noah.  But you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> slave.  And that… is the best thing that will ever happen to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah might not understand, but his dick certainly does.  It throbs, splurts little drops of precum-- but waits for Ivy to complete the lock and force him the rest of the way.  Waits for Ivy's pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But first, purpose number three.  Reward Waylon for his nigh-instant submission.  Through more or less the exact same means as she uses on the Calculator, just like she said.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Poison Ivy, concubine-wife of Harley Quinn the Hunter flexes around the throats of the Calculator and Killer Croc.  Both men feel the inescapable power of a Herald of the Green melded with the gifts of marriage to Hunter, but the Croc is being rewarded.  Entranced by Ivy's pheromones and bent by the power Harley has over him, he will be spending this time on the edge of a transcendent experience, slipping in and out of a higher awareness.</p><p>Admittedly, a higher awareness of Harley's superiority, but it feels far more orgasmic than any completion of his own would.</p><p>The Calculator-- Noah Kuttler-- now, he's... resisting.  Utterly physically dominated, useful only as a tool of greater minds, he still thinks to turn matters to his own advantage.  To obey carefully enough to maintain his independence, and then either escape, or, more laughably, control Harley.</p><p>He fails.  He fails so hard that he becomes caught in the same obedience trance with Croc, so far over and into the merged social space that the Croc feels Noah's submission as his own.</p><p>It's so useful; after all, the Croc will tell her directly when Noah is prepared for the final... enlightenment.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Slaves and concubine, they all bow to the Hunter named Harley Quinn.  In Ivy's case, fully willingly, knelt in a bizarre near-Crab Pose, her strapping arms wrapped out to either side, knees slightly bent into a crouch, and muscles flexed all over her potent body.  She is no Hunter, but a Hunter's power runs through her, making her limbs giant if not colossal, legs magnificent if not quite as massive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under one arm, she has Noah Kuttler, the Calculator.  Information broker, former power-armored supervillain, and dark mirror to the Oracle, Ivy hasn't yet heard his story; all she </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know is that her lover and mistress wants him humbled a bit more.  It isn't hard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because even as men count things, Kuttler's let himself go.  Not a complete flab but with paunch on a once at least wiry form, too much time at a computer, too little time preparing himself for the physical service he didn't know was coming.  Even before Ivy was grown first by the Green and then by Harley, she was not just near his height but more than a match for him in hand to hand combat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Harley collected him to serve her as a pet genius… he's not impressing either woman.  Because naked, with a control collar throttling him and Ivy's meaty arm putting painful pressure on his head </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> shoulders </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> neck… he still thinks he's going to find some way to turn this to his advantage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Ivy's drugged him a bit, for old time's sake.  For new, the green-skinned behemoth babe has crammed him into a part of her show for Harley, demonstrating her physical superiority in rippling, husky comparison.  The only thing he has that she doesn't is a hard-on, and frankly, Ivy's clit is stiffer than it, at least to scale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Ivy is constantly being stimulated by her sensory link to Harley's masturbatory appreciation.  It's no surprise that her clitty throbs constantly, even when Harley's fingers are diving within, rather than circling without.  But physical superiority is just the start of what she's doing to Noah.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Harley broke him, however she did it.  Now, Ivy is choking him expertly, while filling his veins with a trance-inducing hallucinogen, his lungs with the constant scent of Hunter-pussy, and has just finished filling his mind with the truth of his new world.  A slave… but one who might be an honored slave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's always been good to her pets, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's time for Noah to just stew in his helplessness and pain.  For the Calculator to lose the ability to think.  At least, to think of anything but feminine muscles, feminine curves, and feminine </span>
  <em>
    <span>power</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's time to reward Killer Croc.  By choking him within an inch of collapse, demonstrating that he is a weak little worm, and using his own leash to draw lines of pain across his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the Croc's red eyes are vague and abstract, his toned, taut body as rigid as his dick.  No matter how much pain arm and leash inflict on him, Ivy knows he's at a place where all that will feel like is more stimulation, more sense data to know that Harley loves her beast.  Loves him enough to send her very best beast-tamer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Or, since Harley is firmly suppressing the bestial side of Waylon Jones, her best </span>
  <em>
    <span>man</span>
  </em>
  <span>-tamer.  Ivy turns to his ear as well, the chemical components of her lipstick changing.  She traces her tongue over his ear, not kissing it, not just yet.  "Are you ready, Waylon?" she groans softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The savage Croc is still several centimeters taller than Ivy, but her shoulders are broader and her strength, incalculably greater.  But he is big enough to let her get a full on headlock, her huge biceps and forearm pressing directly in against his neck.  Unlike Kuttler, she can completely control Waylon's breath through the neck, focusing on the pain inflicted by the chain leash instead of the carefully eroticized asphyxiation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it does mean he can't really nod much, move his head, or even groan out an answer.  Thankfully, the rest of his body answers.  Waylon willingly crouched down further than Noah in the first place, to keep his head even with the Calculator's and lower than his switch-mistress as she cruelly-kindly trapped him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he goes down on both knees, carefully squeezing firm, well-developed if slender thighs together to push his balls and cock forward-- keeping them on display for Harley and the sudden intensity of interest in her eyes.  He's far bigger than the Calculator-- and his thighs are far broader, but his role has been reversed with Ivy's, bodywise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's less a Croc than a snake now, in some ways, lithe and whipcord lean to Ivy's burly green behemoth, and of course, tiny and scrawny to Harley's mega-amazonian majesty.  But he's taken to the role so well since discovering Harley's dominance-- and by extension, Ivy's-- either keeps his bestial side at bay, or can push him in and out of it at a moment's notice.  His pre drips faster and faster as he puts himself in position to be abused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's as good of a "Ready," as Ivy could wish.  "Good boy," she tells him, and leaves a green lip-mark on his throat-- right above the artery.  Pumping the aphrodisiac right to his brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's body has been a biochemical factory for some time.  It used to take her longer to produce new toxins, sometimes requiring botanical experimentation.  But now, the Green is strong in her, and so is Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it takes no time at all for her to develop a potent aphrodisiac threaded through with Harley's vaginal pheromones.  The latter aren't directly the former, but they carry Harley's </span>
  <em>
    <span>demands</span>
  </em>
  <span> for pleasure just as well.  When she wants to, Ivy's lips will always carry the taste of Harley's sex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Croc can cum from the sudden rush to the pleasure centers of her brain, Ivy curls in her arms and flexes </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her already brawny forearm shoves up under his jaw, her bicep slams the side of his throat in and together, they bracket him between her endlessly soft melon and the impervious power of her shoulder and upper chest.  Her eyes stay on her Mistress Peanut's blue gaze, but she's giving Waylon quite the workout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The motion tightens his leash as a part of cancelling his climax through pain and distraction.  The heavy chain digs into Croc's back, across his shoulderblades, biting him fiercely.  As Ivy curls her fists inwards towards her body, making her biceps squeeze out and her chest squeeze forward, he is instantly in her power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man who can merely tear a bank vault off its hinges is no match for a Herald the Green made fit for a Hunter.  It hits the weaker behemoth as though someone'd thrust his head into too-small stone stocks; the sinewy strength that Ivy applies to him crushes in-- but only so far.  Waylon is obedient; all she wants to do is give him more of the pleasures of submission.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More of the ecstasy of being controlled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Partial asphyxiation strikes him instantly, but he cannot hang his head, not with how his metal collar is being pulled.  To his left, Ivy's suddenly bounced breast knocks into his jaw, but he takes it well, still staring adoringly at Harley.  Despite Ivy's fierce assertion of switch-dominance over him, he feels no pain-- he's even snuggling against her shoulder and breast, stroking the dome of his scaled head against her neck submissively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his eyes ever on their mutual mistress, or Ivy would punish him even in acquiescence.  Instead, the pose scrambles his pleasure and pain responses once more.  Carefully cinched to micrometer precison, he's treated to an erotic asphyxiation moment parallel to none-- though Ivy's even more precise about not letting him climax until Harley either cums or commands it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy groans, her eyes fluttering closed.  Her Green sense is unchanged, and she has a faint photosensitive sense through her skin, but it still doesn't matter.  Harley's vision cannot be dimmed; her direct gaze is upon Ivy… and her sensorium shares quite generously yet gently with her beloved concubine</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike a Hunter, until Harley swore their love together and Ivy answered the call, Ivy did have a darkness behind the eyes-- and much of her body.  Having the ability to "see" through her skin in rough terms prepared her mind for the experience, but not for being so </span>
  <em>
    <span>bare</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the penetrating vision.  Nor is the photosense of her strange, hybrid skin anywhere like the intricate detail of a Hunter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's filtered, so she's not stuck seeing molecules or a dome too big to be seen.  But as she holds Killer Croc and the Calculator in harshly compressing headlocks, she sees herself-- and them-- in utterly intimate detail.  She sees her full one hundred and ninety-eight centimeters, brawny and buff compared to her partner-slaves, but acrobatic and graceful compared to the mega-amazonian frame of Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley only lets Ivy see from Harley's eyes forward, letting the smaller post-amazonian muscle-mistress see herself as Harley does-- a beautiful, beefy-curvy powerhouse, combining succulent curves with curved muscles swept over a dramatic frame, from the way her corded neck flows into the brawn of her traps and out to her bulging delts-- to the sweetly luscious breasts, excessive beyond the dreams of tit-obsessed porn directors, yet firm, aesthetically rounded and incomparably jiggly--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Save to Harley herself, but Harley only lets Ivy have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span> look at Harley's outrageously massive mammary mountains.  Enough to stiffen Ivy's literally rosy nipples to their fattest, perhaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--  And of course, there are then her limbs, and her living sacrifices for her mistress.  Ripped, burly arms are curled around both more slender behemoth in green, and shuddering, terrified mere man in pale pink.  Her oak-strong arms are curled out yet down, both to hold their bodies knelt to Harley as Ivy's are, and to show off the dramatic pump and spread of Ivy's delts and traps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both men are held with their necks and shoulders bent broadly, neither they nor either's head lifted above the level of Ivy's shoulder.  Each is intimately trapped between the terrifying hardness of Ivy's redwood-esque strength, and the pillowy softness of her breasts.  They pleasure Ivy, Croc's cuddles and Kuttler's terrified squirms, but nowhere near as much as Harley's approval, Harley's love-- and the constant flutter of Harley's fingers over her perfect, pale-pink pussy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sharing every caress of sensitive labia and hard clit with her concubine.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She's so generous,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks dreamily.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She even is my eyes-- my light.  I grow for her, and towards her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's opinion, Ivy can't discern in words, but roughly translates to a sly note that Ivy cums towards and for her, too.  Ivy isn't ashamed; it's true, and it's right.  Especially as she continues to serve Harley as mistress of entertainments, correcting one slave and rewarding the other in exact mirrors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poison Ivy's aroma is as bonded to Harley as the rest of her.  Within whatever pheromones she chooses to generate will always be something of the musk of Harley, and with both men seized tight under her arms and crammed into Ivy's generously vast tits, she's turned up production of her own sex pheromones laced with Harley's.  But it's not just horniness the Herald of the Green forces upon both men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's an element of mind control toxin too; Ivy can't produce anything that would affect Harley at all anyway so she hardly cares if the room is covered in the sweetest of brain-bollixing scents.  The self-generated "lipstick" is enough to start the fun, but Ivy insistently forces both men into a trance every bit as much as she holds their feeble necks at her mercy-- Harley's, ultimately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her big, brawny biceps cut off what air her face-smothering titties don't deny to both already.  In the Calculator's case, by viciously grinding his jaw together between upper and forearms' triumphant bulges, and bruising and fracturing along his shoulders.  He's punished for his smallness of body as much as his smallness of mind, her elbow forcing his far shoulder almost out of joint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each deserves the pain of leash-burn and neck-crush.  Each deserves the faceful of tit, and the inability to climax.  Each in his own way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Croc, Ivy notes, own eyes still closed, has his lithe legs spread but bent at the knees, in instinctive imitation of Ivy's hardier, heftier, and above all, better-rounded legs.  Ivy's pussy is of course double blessed.  The green-under-titian mound both has beautiful enough petals and pubic mound for Harley's interest, and is permitted to feel Harley's own sex, and the expert strokes of her fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Croc and Calc may not be permitted climaxes, but Harley hardly permits Ivy to cease cumming, her cunt in constant clench and the rippling, sinuous strength of her inner thighs.  Ivy knows it's a bit vain, but she's fascinated, watching her honeyed, full lips constantly part and pant, constantly making little, "Ah!" and "Mmm!" noises while not instructing the sub-lieutenants in how to please Harley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But back to Waylon.  He, too, is doubly blessed; while his long, dark-pink shaft is constantly erect, the erotic asphyxiation making the thick, lightly textured meat throb along its entire impressive length, and the sweet power of pain and domination forcing his balls to their fullest, he doesn't feel the pain at all.  Even the biting grind of the chain across his back is just a signal to back off, much like the toxin-like aphrodisiac is a signal to keep steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keep the cock drooling precum, pulsing to its thickest and the balls the same-- and he has Harley's prurient pleasure.  Her affection, even.  The euphoric trance transmutes what should be utter torture into a place of bliss, drifting off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon Jones is secure; in a waking dream not unlike his beast in the swamp; save for the man.  His thoughts roam off into intoxicated rapture, but they are a man's thoughts, of heaven in service.  His mistress holds his instincts in their proper place even tighter than her switch-bitch holds his body in its proper vice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them are waiting on Harley's pleasure in some ways.  Waylon can't cum at all, and Ivy is perpetually sent through little climaxes, making her core squeeze and flutter, abs and folds in synch.  But given how sensitive both sexes are right now, Harley could bring them to full on, G-spot-induced, squirting orgasm that would have Ivy screaming her name again and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley wants all </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her slaves to cum their brains out at once.  It tickles her fancy, and that makes the process sacred to Ivy.  So in another sense, Waylon and Ivy both are waiting on the Calculator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Weaker, smaller, and supposedly smarter than the Croc, the Calculator suffers equal abuse, not because he is anything like so tough, but because Harley wanted him with his mind and meta-genius intact.  She could have had him, over the next few days, sex and pain easy levers to move any species into their proper position at a Hunter's feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But a part of Poison Ivy's promise to her Mistress Peanut is that she will handle the subtler things, careful and close-- an extension of Harley's will and fingers.  So simultaneous with her rewarding punishment for Waylon, the Calculator is experiencing utterly brutal pain.  All the while the power of her kiss, marked in green on his ear and head, catalyzes Ivy's scent in his blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oddly enough, it's Waylon who tells Ivy and Harley when it happens.  Before even Harley's near-instantaneous senses can register the change in Noah Kuttler's blood, brain, and hormonal systems, Waylon buries his long, smooth-scaled muzzle closer to Ivy's superior chest and moans, "We are there!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy opens her eyes and tilts her head to the side slightly; Harley nods, an impressed grin growing on her pleasure-flushed and sweat-bejeweled face, each bead glistening in the diner's old, cheap fluorescent lights.  "Yeah," Harley purrs.  "Makes sense, don't it, my Prettyful an' Pretti</span>
  <em>
    <span>fied</span>
  </em>
  <span> Poinsettia?"</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Ivy blushes shyly, and rewards Waylon with another catalyzing kiss.  Less aphrodisiac, more just simple intoxicant, the better to hold him nodding off into slumber.  She flexes her arms tighter, curling them closer to the broad, banded bulges of her pecs-- and the great, pillowy masses of her tits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I suppose, Harl," Ivy drawls softly.  "Treat them the same in punishment and reward, and of course they'll trance together.  Shall we see where we can take them?"  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hopefully, for Noah, to where Mistress can finally release us all to our rewards.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Waylon's long muzzle means the new position is again a reward.  Comforting; arousing, certainly, to be held against such lush titflesh in loving bondage.  He can breathe, his snout poking past the upper curve.  Somewhat ridiculous-- and still full of Ivy's Harl-filled pheromones-- but restful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator is completely smothered.  Where he is not crushed, viced inwards on himself by harsh muscles of which the smallest </span>
  <em>
    <span>fiber</span>
  </em>
  <span> could snap his entire body in half, his nose and mouth are buried in Ivy's breast.  Her scent, Harley's with the rose-and-sensuality that marks Ivy's contribution, burns in his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brain and body are present, but his mind is in an entire other layer.  What Waylon gets through a combination of measured pain and pleasure and a dominant Hunter's hand-- or Ivy's body-- Noah has been pushed through to a deeper trance, open to suggestion.  To command.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where once he struggled to find breath, his shoulders slump and his head careens into Poison Ivy's breast head on.  It'd be a serious knock, so for Ivy, it's like a light caress of Killer Croc's long, wimpy fingers.  The muscles developed from his earlier, more energetic life of crime have lost definition, testosterone's staying power keeping the bulk on without any of the power and efficiency of Poison Ivy's pre-Quorum body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She'd have beat him in arm-wrestling then--  possibly against both of his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, even the tone and tensing of a usual human holding himself erect are gone; Ivy's holding him up as much as she's holding him caught.  His skin is warming, a heated blush travelling over his entire nude body, yet becoming droopy and soft.  Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>entirely</span>
  </em>
  <span> unpleasant against her taut green power, but odd, definitely odd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," she hisses, soft and slow.  "You're there, aren't you, Noah?  If our mistress' eyes weren't holding you, you'd be flicking about like you were dreaming.  Those tasty tears of yours are flowing again-- not quite wrung dry, eh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tongue laps over his lips repeatedly.  Ivy's seen a lot of people in trances-- probably more than she's seen untranced people, even counting her entire pre-Ivy life-- and she can tell that his tongue's darting further out than most people entering into a hypnotic trance would.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unsurprising, given how sexual my body has always been and has become more still.  Let alone how potent Harley's Hunter sexuality is.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Another of Harley's soft, continuous climaxes hits and Ivy's pants become rapid squeals, "forced" to join her mistress.  The boys join her too, jiggled by breasts against powerful biceps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah gives a strangled noise; Ivy wouldn't be able to tell that it was affirmative-- but Harley can, and Harley shares.  In many ways, what's being done to Noah is Harley's work still, and it is completely Harley's will, regardless of the shape Ivy gives to it.  So Ivy slowly relaxes her holds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Not all the way, nor does she relax her flexion.  Huge, female muscle is still on display before the huger, musclier mistress dominating both men.  But Ivy uncurls her arms slightly; Waylon reflexively squirming in deeper anyway, finding safety in a muscle mistress at all, even if it's a lesser one like Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah can breathe again, speak again, and surrender himself properly.  Ivy shifts her hold so her fists are planted against his sternum and Croc's; the thudding of their hearts, slightly left of her fingers, tells her what she needs to know.  She begins her work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poor Waylon, mostly ignored in his reward while Harley stares harsher and harsher at Noah.  "You're not worthy of her eyes," Ivy hisses.  "You know it, slut.  Where does a horny little bitch like you belong?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"..." Noah is clearly caught.  He doesn't have the muscle strength, this deep in, to move his head, but his eyes keep flickering about.  Staring at Harley's mammoth, slightly shuddering tits, even her immense nipples, gets the leash tightened across his shoulders, deeper into the already cut flesh.  Staring at her abs gets him squeezed; at her muscles, a lack of pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But each time his open, dreaming eyes flick to her pussy or to her feet, Ivy kisses him again.  Along the jawline, along his hairline, over the ear, on the throat.  The musclebound Herald of the Green sends little puffs of biochemical delights into him, whenever he remembers…  where he belongs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn't get long to shift.  Soon enough, Ivy hisses, "An answer is </span>
  <em>
    <span>verbal</span>
  </em>
  <span>, slut… and it should be prompt.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where does a horny little bitch like you belong?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a hiss, and a whipping tail behind them, and it makes her stifle a chuckle.  For her mistress' </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> pet, she rubs her hip sensuously over his thin bulk, letting his green scales feel the squishy firmness of her curves.  She also buries his muzzle a bit deeper in titty, letting him feel Harley's approval through her own heavy knocker-- but that he should remain silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fortunately, Noah doesn't require too much more training-- not captured in body and mind like this.  "Beneath… beneath…" he sobs.  And then gasps as Ivy kisses him again-- this time with the Quinn-quimcum-laced aphrodisiac.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, she doesn't let him jizz; she still keeps his body balanced between pleasure and pain.  But the answer is good, and so she lets him feel some of the constant ecstasy within which Killer Croc swims.  His pale body shivers but only slowly; the trance has cut his puppet-strings, and he cannot find the strength to even panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why do you weep, Noah?" Ivy groans, her breath hot over the green mark of pleasure.  "Why would you fear being beneath her?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kuttler gasps, his body stiffening as though fear lanced through him on an electrical jolt.  "Power… so much power!"  She doesn't permit escape from the trance, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, as he stiffens, she begins to flex rhythmically.  Her pec pumps out, and his face is further smothered behind her breast.  But at the same time, that softness swings on him like a sack on a crane, smacking him back into her rigid bicep, already bigger than his head, and against the huge coiled power of her forearm-- held passively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ivy doesn't let up.  In time with his slowing pulse, the flex shifts.  Her fist tightens, grinding against his sternum and beginning the pressure across his ribcage.  She doesn't have Harley's control over how the force is spread, but the force of her knuckle </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> distributed, by the same force that would let her tear a building from the ground instead of ripping the bricks from its side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Noah's chest squeezes around his lungs, her breast squeezes around his face, and he's bounced against her arm.  At the speed the Green gave her and Harley accelerated, the lub of the lub-THUD heartbeat seems to last forever.  Then the points reverse.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>THUD!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's a soft sound to the world, the Calculator's weak little heartbeat.  To Ivy's preternatural hearing, it speaks of everything about him-- his health, his mind, his body's commitment in advance of his soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So on the actual beat, he inhales sharply, and she reacts to keep his lungs full of Harley's sex, Harley's power, and Harley's pleasure, filtered through Ivy's internal biochemical factory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, her bicep and forearm bulge further and further, dwarfing his head and shoving him deep into the heavy softness of her breasts.  It's self-stimulating, heightening her own moan as her wriggling hips and moistening pussy react to Harley's constant self-play.  In the instant he gasps, he is forced deeper into scent and stimulation, deeper into Ivy's breast, and deeper into Ivy's power.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But my power is the property of Harley Quinn,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks happily.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>That which does not come from her, she claims.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her eyes do meet Harley's, for she is concubine and beloved, and the fondness there almost makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> weep for its beauty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezes him back and forth as he shudders, matching his heart rate to the squeezing.  Her breast pounds into his face on the start of the beat, propelled by the striated brawn of her pectorals, smacking the rest of his head into her hardened muscles.  An arm bigger than his very leg-- possibly both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within moments, the Calculator settles on the cleft between Harley's gargantuan, shredded thighs.  Now, he stares into the pale-petaled beauty, even his drool dripping in time with Harley's snatch as the self-love continues.  Indeed, as a particularly sweet climax ripples from Ivy to Harley, making Ivy groan out Harley's name, the Calculator's jaw works and lips press, as well as they can within the rhythmic pulse of green bicep and green breast around his trapped head.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm not surprised,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks cheerfully.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mistress' pussy is so pretty.  Her feet are powerful, and I would love to have her rest one on my face forever-- I'd feel as warmed as by the sun!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But really, what can compare with Harley's honey, falling from those lovely rounded lips, grown fleshier but shapelier with her pleasure?  Mine can't, for all they carry a remnant of her beauty now, too.  That's the way it should be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good, Calculator," Poison Ivy whispers-- still keeping up the arm-breast flexing, just in case.  "Good.  Was there any reason to fear being under her power, after all?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Failure," he moans, smiling sloppily, as though he was pulled so far from his body's concerns that he can barely remember how to be happy at all.  "Power… and anger…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, no," she chides, and nips his ear again, flicking her wrist and snaking the pulled-taut length of his leash across his back.  "Calculator, you still aren't </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Do you see Mistress Harley's pussy?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm-- yes…."  He juts his chin forth as far as her headlock allows-- which isn't much.  His eyelids flicker, and the full-body blush grows brighter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why fear failure, then?" Ivy urges.  "All that would happen is you'd suffer.  Do you matter so much, Calculator?  What do you calculate your worth to be?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A… slave.  So many muscles.  So beautiful," Noah whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're so close, Noah," Ivy urges.  "Do you feel the cum trying to swell in the root of your dick?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his affirmative whimper, she goes on, "The seed your little branch there is getting ready to blossom?  It can't-- because </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> aren't ready yet.  Do you smell </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> sex, Noah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Beautiful too… Oh… So delicious, so…"  Words fail the information broker.  His mind is as naked as his body, full of the two women dominating him that he just stutters into a drool.  It's funny, really-- his head bounces back into Ivy's powerful shoulder, then smacks forward into her wrist before being returned to the base of her watermelon-mammaries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which flex, sending him reeling back again.  Ivy's green lips part in a wide, toothy burst of sharpness.  "You're holding my pussy back, Noah," she says sternly, as he's juggled between the rhythmic flexing of her arm and chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rate had slowed, as had his heart, but her words make it "race" back up to a nearly awake fifty beats per minute.  "I-- I'm sorry…" he groans.  Of course, doing so punishes him, rattling his head around between plush feminine curves and curvy feminine muscle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But…  it's her job to teach.  And she has so much to teach him still…</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The treachery of Jason Woodrue permanently locked Poison Ivy from her inheritance as a Hunter.  Now, she must love Harley Quinn across a gap, bridged by the power of the Green, the loaned mantle of Gaia-Geb, and the power of the oaths between them.  Herald, Steward, and concubine-wife, she is only so saddened by what little gap remains.</p><p>Killer Croc is a more thorough slave, but he is an obedient one.  The beast that Hush made and the man he was are both Harley's, and Ivy takes good care of him for it.  He suffers, but in a fun way.</p><p>(Ivy was always good at that; now, she's Hunter tier at a level that makes Harley wet-- and starts her plotting)</p><p>But the Calculator resists.  Weaker, but smart enough to be useful, the problem is that the same intelligence that makes him a worthy tool is being used to avoid being that tool.  Ivy will not permit it.</p><p>By pain, and pheromone; by biochemical control and the power of her voice, Ivy takes Noah down further and further.  Teaches him to worship the beauty of Harley's pussy.  He's far too small a person-- just a man, after all-- to worship her as a whole.</p><p>So instead, she teaches him to be swallowed up in power of her pleasure.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Poison Ivy loves Harley Quinn.  More importantly-- to Ivy-- Harley loves her back, and not merely in the manner of a pet.  As a concubine and cuddle-buddy, not a peer, but this is the changed Earth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley is a Hunter.  Ivy was supposed to be… but Jason Woodrue put an end to that.  So they love each other across a gulf, with only the similarity of the Green's influence on Ivy's thinking and reach to bring each other close.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the power of their Oathbond sensory and emotional sharing to bridge the gap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So Ivy is Harley's concubine; a slave but not merely a slave.  Mistress to her pets, Steward of her holdings, and beneficiary of her shared power.  It's the last that has fueled her growth dance, turning her from the Green's fluidly muscular champion into a miniature titan all her own, just a little short of two meters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has no holdings yet; the diner is just a stop.  More powerful Hunters roam Gotham, and others will focus on the Bat-Family for vengeance or as prizes.  When Ivy asked Harley to send the staff home; she was really asking Harley to leave them behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two remain, but while-- in the manner of such things as a Hunter's Hungers whispers-- they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> simply writhing worms, fit only to be used and abused… Harley is perhaps a natural rebel, her mind set free of base constraints long ago.  So the warmth and love that the Joker spurned can be granted to Ivy in some small tithe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the love she shared for her fur baby hyenas can be granted to other pets.  Waylon Jones, the Killer Croc, accepted them eagerly once Harley's dominance was established.  After all, that same dominance keeps his bestial instincts at bay, replacing the destructive influence of Hush's virus with the firm hand of Harley's will.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He just had to be brought, and caught.  And taught.  So Ivy rewards him, conquering him in a crushing headlock that sends partially asphyxiative pulses of pleasure throughout his gymnast-hulk of a body.  Taller than Ivy but far more slender-- despite being a behemoth compared to the majority of mankind-- she easily has him held, surrounded by her scent--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Always mixed with Harley's, forevermore--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-- and the melded pheromones that push him to the edge of orgasm, while careful application of biting pain keeps him from going to that reward… yet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Noah Kuttler, the Calculator, resists.  Far weaker in body than even the feeble Croc, he is a metagenius who has not yet realized that only makes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>useful</span>
  </em>
  <span>… not a player at the games of power.  It's just to his luck that he's not actively resisting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy would hurt him deeply for disappointing their mistress so, but there's no need.  Harley has clearly shown him the futility of physical resistance to a Hunter's might-- or a Hunter's lust.  Instead, as he might have in the impossibly ancient age of hours ago, he believes in his soul that he will be able to find an opening, some point to flee or perhaps even to manipulate the far more intelligent Hunter to protect him without giving himself utterly to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Rude, I call that,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks angrily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You were smart enough to treat your employees well and the Earth beside, Noah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You realized that you had no choice-- if you devoured your company's workforce the way most did, you'd eventually have to spend all your time as a vulture, and not the secret power you sought.  You realized, more dear to </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart, that continuing to leach toxins into the soil, trap heat in the atmosphere, and destroy the plants that help you breathe would send you headlong to the end.  You realized that a few decades can be a lifetime-- or it can be very short, indeed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why can't you understand that you have no choice here?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he doesn't.  The Calculator is afraid of pain, and that's fine-- awe and terror of his musclebound mistress' past-divine strength is natural.  But he seeks to </span>
  <em>
    <span>avoid</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, rather than transmute it the way she offers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fears failure, rather than accepting that he will fail; his flesh is weak and his mind, no matter how sharp for a human, is limited.  He fears the pain his mistress and switch-mistress will apply, instead of glorifying in feeding the Hunter who owns him and revelling in the power of pain to transform his mind and his body into a better slave.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Drugged, beaten, choked, and kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>far</span>
  </em>
  <span> more harshly on the edge than the Croc, Kuttler is still acting as though he thinks he's a person.  That his hopes and fears are equal with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ivy's</span>
  </em>
  <span>, let alone Harley Quinn's.  And he's letting it take him from the euphoric trance that protects him from the consequences of his actions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm going to take care of you, Noah,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks tenderly.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Consider this a thank-you for being a better corporate shark than many, and a reliable information broker.  I will teach you how to forget your personhood-- and how to live for Harley Quinn instead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she gives him another hallucinogenic kiss, with just a touch of soporific.  It might be a touch sophomoric of her, but she's started to draw H + P on his head with the smooches, and is starting to add a little Q and little I alongside.  It makes her beloved smile so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Back down, Noah.  Back down.  Be drawn to the waking dream," she chants, tonguing his ear.  "Your brother slave's cock </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Noah.  Don't you have any mercy for him-- if you don't obey my pussy well enough?  Or at least your own poor little thing?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Don't… understand!"  He sobs, but she's not letting him free enough to up his heart rate further, and she waits a while, just flexing steadily, back and forth and all around both men's necks, until he's sinking further below true consciousness, and into the heartbeat of the world.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You have to surrender, Noah," Ivy insists.  "You have to realize, that if you suffer… it pleases Mistress Harley's pussy.  Your obedience pleases more… but... "</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But…?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But why would you </span>
  <em>
    <span>avoid</span>
  </em>
  <span> suffering when you can obey her </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> please her?  Do you think your tongue is talented enough, Noah?  Really?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do you think your dick is better suited to our mistress' sex, or mine?  That it is strong enough to survive our muscles, thick enough to please us, and long enough to reach our pleasure?"  She shakes her head sadly.  "You know better, Noah."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"N-no…  No… No…"  The metagenius chants it, his mind obsessing on his humiliation-- and the two powerful women who inflict it.  He doesn't even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> at Croc; why would he?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In this, Waylon is neither beast nor man.  He's a dildo, shaped and purposed for Harley's pleasure and lent to Ivy at need.  An instrument-- even if perhaps they one day choose to use it </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Calculator, rather than just at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the end, the Calculator isn't that hard of a blank to shape.  How could he be?  He's just a man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy soaks his brains in biochemicals.  His own hormonal and neurochemical responses to the choking and the pain and the pleasure are a good start.  Her soft kisses bring new pulses, hallucinogens to set his mind free of itself, sophorics to prevent his punishment from stealing him from the trance, control pheromones to keep him focused, and aphrodisiacs to reward him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's it," Ivy whispers.  "What do you see, Noah?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mistress's pussy," he whispers, shaking and crying in her arm.  "I feel small-- all small-- small enough to be swallowed up."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy laughs softly.  "My dear boytoy," she tells him, and squeezes harder around his throat-- and Waylon's.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>If any of us suffer, including my shame at not serving the mistress-- we </span>
  </em>
  <span>all</span>
  <em>
    <span> suffer.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After all, I'm not so cruel to Waylon that I'd deny him the chance to feed my Harl.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  As the Calculator spasms weakly, unable to tighten his muscles in the post-hypnotic trance, she licks the line of his throat.  "You're telling me you </span>
  <em>
    <span>grieve</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you might one day feed </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> pussy?  Is the mistress so ugly to you?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He babbles wordless protests, drooling at the very thought of her.  His cock jumps and twitches, precum flicking over the floor.  Not quite an orgasm, not quite not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You see her pussy, Noah.  You see how beautiful it is.  You see how much bigger she is than you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yes…"  He sees, and he doesn't, his eyes rolling back in his head.  But to have seen a Hunter's sex-- especially one who claims you-- is to be trapped by it forever.  No way out of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> memory.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"How much stronger she is-- not just you, Noah.  Me too."  Ivy flexes a bit in place, not tightening the lock too much-- in fact, she has to widen the curl of her arms, lest she break Noah and give the Croc too much pleasurepain for his poor dick to remain controlled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yes…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Could you escape it, do you think?  That pussy.  The pleasure it grants, just for the kiss of lips?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Dream, Noah.  Dream of being lost in her sex-- just before the orgasm hits.  The </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> one, female ejaculate more voluminous than your whole little body about to flood you.  Dream of running down the grooves in her thighs-- just before she flexes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He jerks at first, sadly, but a dichotomous aphrodisiac and soporific mixed green kiss-print on his throat floods that away.  "Dream," Ivy commands, "Dream of being permitted into her cleavage-- you've been there, haven't you, your head at least, maybe those adorable little shoulders, too?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Moaning groans louder.  The Calculator's body is gyrating now, but not to escape-- his hips pounding back and forth like he was beneath Harley and being pulled along with her Hungry slit's rape.  He knows what it is to find pleasure on the edge of destruction at her hands, indeed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Dream," she orders, again and again.  Of his throat held not by Ivy's pathetic post-kryptonian strength, but by just a finger of Harley's.  Of being held over her shoulders, his legs going one way and his torso, the other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just like lifetimes can be held in a second for the mind of a Hunter, Ivy knows that words and stories can </span>
  <em>
    <span>carry</span>
  </em>
  <span> lifetimes.  Each time Noah accepts his diminishment-- each time he thinks of himself as a punching bag, or a dildo, or a pretty sucker, prick to pop its semen syrup for Harley again and again-- he accepts a lifetime of slavery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley giggles, and Ivy shares in her sight and her amusement.  A similar brand to Ivy's grown collarmark-- three diamonds and a star-- is burning itself </span>
  <em>
    <span>beneath</span>
  </em>
  <span> Noah's collar.  Like hypnotically induced pseudo-stigmata, only far, far more lasting, thanks to Ivy's pharmacopeiaic kisses and Harley's utter dominance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy whispers the final suggestions.  "Dream of her using you, Noah-- and being </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Does it matter how you get there?"  She hopes she isn't going to have to use too many more of the absorbing-swallowing metaphors; too like to a Stealer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yes…"  Noah's moan makes Ivy wince, but he surprises her.  "Because there are better ways to please.  Ways to feed, and ways to pleasure, ways to excite, and ways to stimulate."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.  Thank you, Calculator.  You're so close; I wish I knew why you needed me to insult my beloved to get you to love her properly too…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  But the grief isn't permitted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy can't whisper for a few moments thereafter.  She's too busy squealing in orgasm, her untouched pussy clenching and gushing.  Because her beloved is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> insulted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley's love fills Ivy, following the shared climax.  Harley had slowed her masturbation down to a musky, rolling beat, so her concubine would not be too distracted, but Ivy's only real strength </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley.  The entire Green is barely more real than Noah's hallucinated dreams of Harley.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If she's fine with the metaphors-- in a trance-- if she' s not insulted…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy smiles happily up at Harley, her sight lingering on those enormously beautiful breasts for a while.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Then my suffering is a gift, that it might please her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Noah is on the edge.  Ivy has had to take him to the brink of collapse repeatedly.  The collapse of bone beneath her impossibly hard arm-muscles, her bicep bulging bigger than his </span>
  <em>
    <span>head</span>
  </em>
  <span> repeatedly to make her point.  The collapse of his body, with insufficient oxygen and too much trauma.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The collapse of his mind, overloaded by the induction toxins she's forced to use on him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'm going to have to stop if that didn't do it.  And he's close enough that I could just stop.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley nods subtly at her, long fingers running deep into her pussy with one hand, and the other squeezing into her super-sensitive right areola, teasing fingernails towards her abundant, rosy nipples.  Ivy trembles; here is a failure to fear.  That Harley will not have as much pleasure as Ivy </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be able to give her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she moves towards the crux anyway, because she trusts her beloved will punish her so far as she needs to feed in replacement, and to train Ivy to be a better switch-bitch.  If poor Waylon is not to be rewarded, if Harley is not to have her G-orgasm… It will be regrettable, but Ivy is happy even in the light of such failure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because it means Harley still values her slaves as pets, to be trained, not to be discarded.  Because it means Harley loves, and has joy.  Ivy smiles yet again at her, and shivers all the way down to the wide, wriggly globes of her teardrop ass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she kisses the Calculator's cheek, marking it in honeyed-green lip relief.  Kisses him fiercely and close, delivering as much of the aphrodisiac toxin and control pheromones as she safely can.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's time to see if we all cum together, or if our climaxes are as stifled as your training, Noah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"So… do you see?" she whispers, and begins to lick the lipstick marks on him.  Immune to their toxins, her saliva helps turn the marks into proper strokes of handwriting.  HQ+PI.  That, and soaks it further through his skin… and deeper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Harley smirks.  Ivy is abruptly saddened that she might have failed the mistress, and that all </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> can please her lover with is suffering.  Harley lets Ivy feel her lips whisper, Watch, Pammie.  And lets her see how deep Harley's middle finger is going now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because the Calculator is slowly groaning, his voice nearly as pleasure-tightened as Ivy's nigh-constantly climaxed tones.  "Yes!  I see!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Tell me, Calculator!" Ivy demands, feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley's</span>
  </em>
  <span> G-spot all of a sudden.  A desperate surge of dominating pleasure, owning Ivy's pussy and Ivy's brain as Harley herself nears a conquering climax of her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Obedience is a reward.  It pleases her."  His eyes open wide, seeing a tiny fraction of the bliss that Ivy was granted by swearing with Harley.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Suffering</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a reward-- it pleasures her!  It feeds her!"</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"The </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Calculator!" Ivy growls.  Now her arms tighten.  Now the rippling, massive prominences of bicep and lower arm squeeze hard, bulging out like inflated balls but solid and shaped, her secondary musculature increasing the mass of the primary flex.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Noah Kuttler is left with just enough breath to moan.  "Harley Quinn!" he croaks.  "I am the slave of Harley Quinn!  I am the property of Harley Quinn!   Mind… body…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man shudders, knowing the former will be chained to her forever and the latter will be re-shaped through vigorous training to be even adequate for his mistress.  "And </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span>," he whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You swore to serve her, didn't you?"  Ivy groans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I did!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Did you do so hoping for freedom?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Calculator is crying again, weeping like a little boy, but not for his own pain.  "I did… I just wanted the pain to stop!  I just wanted her to stop making my head ache my body scream and my mind-- she was swallowing my mind!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And now?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Now…"  Suddenly, Noah Kuttler's feeble body goes rigid in Ivy's armlock… but he's done it, spreading his thighs and crouching to the extent that he can without breaking parallel with the Croc.  Puny cock and thankfully thick nuts are pulsating, vulnerable, hanging low and full of need.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Now I want to be swallowed up," he groans.  "Now I want to hurt, if it makes her happy!  If it feeds her!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Are you ready for the worst of all, Noah?" Ivy asks.  Sweat runs over her face, sliding over the high cheekbones and the elegant lines.  Her muscular body is full of it, her own green skin suddenly filled with the same heat.  Her plump ass can't stop wiggling and shaking, the perky cheeks slapping together as she flexes her glutes in and out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Between her broad, broadly-muscled thighs and their own hard bulges, her pussy isn't so much gushing as flooding, and all of it is just preliminary.  There's a small, tiny portion that is Ivy's own pleasure at dominating the once-threatening Croc and training the once-mysterious Calculator.  But most of it…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Is because Harley's long, supple fingers are deep in her own sex, circling and thrusting against her G, bringing herself closer and closer to climax.  Dragging Poison Ivy with her, their senses forever linked, and Harley's so potent that they would overwhelm poor Ivy.  If not for the strength of their love and their promises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I am ready," the Calculator says, smiling and trembling all the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Are you?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"As much… as I can!" he gasps.  "Please, mistress Ivy!  Please make me ready for Mistress Harley!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You've heard her laugh."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shivers and nods, panting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You've seen her smile."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More groans, and a gasped, "Yes."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"This is the final task, Noah… you're going to obey; you're going to suffer…"  Poison Ivy leans in all the closer.  Her tongue teases at his teardrops, licking them away, then mixing their taste with her kisses and their permanent scent of Harley.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"And then… then our Mistress </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> have mercy, Noah.  You know why that hurts, the same as Waylon does."  It's different for Ivy herself; her happiness is bound to Harley's in a near-marriage, sub to domme.  Feeding Harley's Drives will always resonate, always take her to the place where her pain is pleasure and her submission to Harley is rapture.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But for Noah and Waylon, they'll have to come out of the haze.  Waylon, with the gift of the man above the beast; Noah, with a mind at last turned to things truly greater than himself.  But they'll still have to be happy in their own lives, find cheer and joy as much as servants-- a guardscroc and a lesser genius; acting as a fist and a mind to implement the greater strength and intelligence of Harley's.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then they'll need to suffer again.  To descend back from merely being content in their slavery, down, down into subspace again, hurting and humiliated and naked before their owner.  Worst of all… they'll love it more than life itself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But for now… as terrifying as that is to the Calculator, no aspect of his mind can escape the terror that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappointing Mistress Harley.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  So why would he be afraid of being dunked and rescued repeatedly?  He can't.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I take the pain!" Noah screams.  "I will take living, and smiling, and all awful things that are away from Mistress Harley's pussy and true happiness…  and I will come back again, and again, and again!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's Harley that speaks now, one hand raised up to squeeze and fondle her heavy left breast, bouncing the jigglesome mountain about and stimulating her areola all along.  "Then Noah…  Waylon… an' my sweet Pammie…"  Her other hand is manipulating her most sensitive, deepest folds, bringing herself to the brink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"CUM FOR ME!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With that, Harley's hand shifts swiftly away, palm stroking over fat, tight mound, petting the pubes down as her forefinger and middle pin her pussy lips wide.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She climaxes first; it's just appropriate.  She howls the order as she does, the 'meeeeee' trailing off into a delighted cry as her sex spasms and she squirts hard.  All over her Pammie, of course, the scant distance turning her powerful muscles' production into a pleasant spray, coating Poison Ivy's face with the mind-blanking deliciousness that is Harley's femmecum.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Beloved!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Her Pammie is grateful for the nourishment, and grateful all the more for the resonance.  The bond harmonizes hearts and heartbeats, sense to sensing, and a myriad of other connections.  But it's the second that she's most grateful for now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Pammie's pussy has been feeling the ghost of Harley's fingertips and a sampling of Harley's vaginal and clitoral nerves the whole time.  Now, her whole tunnel feels lit on fire made of ecstasy; sharing, just for a second, the full sensation of Harley's massively expanded tactile and pleasure senses.  A second-- lifetimes, to a being capable of thinking at Hunter-equivalent speeds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It is only Harley's oaths that save the lives of the Croc and Calculator.  Chanting "Fuck-fuck-fuck-FUCK!" Pammie's full body unleashes itself in spasm, already huge muscles bulging out into flexion.  Her broad arms curl tighter; her hard chest flexes fuller; abs and obliques and lats and up to the traps-- there to meet the flex already coming across from the arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And down, down killer quads turned into the death of continents and hamstrings no starship battery could cut.  "Mm--haaahnnn… Ahh!" she cries, unable to form words any further.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her calves are like Harley's fists, big and a little round and </span>
  <em>
    <span>harsh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Eyes rolling back and one eyelid flicking, toes curling and smashing deep down into the earth beneath, she screams on in climax.  Roots travel from and to her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her arms don't just bulge, of course, they curl in upon the men.  Although some of her strength against Hunters is the Earth to which she is also a servant, Poison Ivy is far too strong, even for Killer Croc.  He shouldn't have lasted the second the orgasm hit, and the Calculator wouldn't have lasted a thousandth of that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Pammie is bound by her mistress' promises as tightly as her own.  Each man only receives enough agonizing pressure to bring him to his own body-wrenching orgasm and no more, accentuated by her hands opening and releasing the leashes.  The pain of having their wounds exposed is only additional joy, in the trance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Palms open and fingers wide, she reaches out for her rapidly bouncing mammaries, hills of breasts to Harley's mountains.  Spasming with the rest of her, her hands clench and tug at her own sensitive rack, jiggling the green knockers together faster and faster.  Her nipples just go stiffer and stiffer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While Ivy's face goes reddish-purple under the green, and her mouth simply can't close for crying out her cum, Waylon and Noah are driven further to their knees.  Both men's heads are driven into her voluminous titties alongside her hands, their cries and frantic gasps for air extending her orgasm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But they do more.  It isn't just visually stimulating (and clitorally inspiring) to Harley that they be totally smothered in Ivy's broad, beautiful breasts.  The sensory bond drinks fully of Ivy as she cannot of Harley, transmitting the sensations on </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> smaller super-melons to be stretched across Harley's mammoth rack..  It will take them some time-- and recovery-- to realize it, but their suffering and writhing pleasures their mistress as much as pleases her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley's second squirt hits seconds later.  "Rh-- Re… Mm…  Red…  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Red!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Harley cries out, smiling big enough to swallow the world.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The spray is still mostly over the kneeling Pam, her mouth already open wide.  The O of her scream becomes a similar grin, jaw dropped and tongue lapping as her face is painted.  Harley's gargantuan body, endless muscles in powerful-- yet controlled, the diner remains intact-- writhing, straightens, her treetrunk right arm and redwood-thick legs splaying out all over the booth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The left hand remains at her sex, "tormenting" Ivy with sensory overload.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bound men climax instantly, the promised relief added on top of the alchemy of euphoria.  Their hormone-addled (and oxygen-starved) brains are crucibles, transmuting Ivy's immense strength and the pain it inflicts, into endless pleasure.  The Calculator simply passes out even before his shaft shoots its first long, ropey strands, his meagre prick leaving a meagre coat of seed on the diner floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's a few further cum-gushes, but in total, he doesn't match even one of Ivy's normal climaxes for rush of fluid.  It's to be expected, of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She'd already brought him below the level of her shoulders, but she holds onto him for a while longer.  Brawny green giantess arms nonetheless squeeze him viciously for his weakness while she smiles hopefully at Harley's bright blue eyes and quivering pink pussy.  The Calculator's weakness does not dim those, so Ivy lets him sleep (and thrash) in the pillowy embrace of her breastflesh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As for his semen splurts-- Ivy's roots pop back up to drink the released cum down; she's not letting a mess mar the floor.  Other than the shattered flooring from her tendrils popping up.  And the mess the Croc leaves, to Ivy's horror.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To Ivy's horror-- but to Harley's amusement-- Waylon's adequately huge cock bulges wider still, pretty dark-pink laced with texturing veins all a-throb.  The wad that travels down has been waiting for even longer than the Calculator, through lovely, thick nuts that have been in constant stimulus, not needing the extra effort to subspace trance the Slutty Cock.  It ends up slashing quite a way, too…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Onto Harley's lowered left foot in time.  Ivy's eyes go wider still, and rage turns her smile into a grimace, but Harley just blows a kiss.  Ivy easily submits to her mistress' amusement, and only keeps strangling Waylon to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>edge</span>
  </em>
  <span> of unconsciousness, his lungs burning on the fumes of her aroma and Harley's still.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Agile as ever-- indeed, more so-- Harley could, of course, bring her own foot to her lips despite the girth and strength of her muscles.  Perhaps she will-- some other time.  Instead, the massively muscled woman clenches her toes carefully, extends her long leg out-- and then flexes in a swift but not air-burning motion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The action throws the huge dollop of jizz up for Harley to lick out of the air like a melted, sticky snowflake (or a hundred…) fast enough for her to scoot her leg to the side and catch the next wave of cum from the Croc's uncontrolled orgasm.  "Just remember, Red," Harley groans in between slurps  "I get th'drinks too, not just your greedy roots." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again and again, her superior strength and control lets Harley amuse and feed herself on Waylon's shuddering seed-spasm.  Ivy whimpers a bit, blushing; Harley's fingers wank along her clit long enough for Ivy to understand this isn't punishment, before slowing and bringing </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> up for a taste as well.  "Mmm," they groan in unison, Ivy's higher, sweeter tones just a bit behind Harley's louder, earthier voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy blushes a bit, licking her tongue over her green lips, still tasting Harley's orgasm through Harley's tongue.  "I suppose… it's all your property, Mistress," she moans again, retracting her roots.  "We all are."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She drops the Calculator-- carefully-- on the ground, and rises a bit, twirling Waylon around and pulling his head back to rest upon the squishy breadth of her sweetly fat tits.  "He's such a good boy, isn't he, my love, my heart, my mistress?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley sticks out her tongue.  "Don' go too crazy with th' mistressing, Pammie.  I don' wanna get to liking it </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much from ya lips."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Laughing, bouncing the Croc's half-sleeping body up and down while she carries the slender giant closer to her breast, Ivy nods.  "Gotcha Mistress… Peanut," she says with a wink.  "But they </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> good boys.  Especially Waylon."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Harley's bonded concubine, Ivy does feel like she has to protect perfection for Harley, but honestly, since Harley chose to accept the cum as tribute, she also feels the need to champion Harley's slaves.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>For I am to be the guardian of her heart as she is the mistress of mine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley laughs, stretching her long-spread limbs out once more before bringing both legs down-- much to Ivy's obvious, pouting disappointment.  She makes an airy gesture with her still cumstained left fingertips, and Ivy carefully rights Waylon on his feet.  Trembling and staggering, the giant ophidian obeys immediately, kneeling down to the ground at Ivy's feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swaying and swaggering hips and shoulders aggressively, Ivy steps over the Croc and heads over towards Harley.  The Croc waits, gathering the Calculator up in lean arms that quite dwarf the little genius.  When Ivy passes, he rises silently to his full two point two-six meters, holding the Calculator in an oddly appropriate bridal carry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lesser brawn and subordinate brain, they are partners in Harley's service, and Ivy fully intends to teach them to service each other to entertain Harley.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine, and myself… it's nice to make them grunt and heave at each other for a change.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their sexualities matter no more than did Noah's fading ideas of independence.  They're slaves to a Hunter now, and that means that they exist to please her in life.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>just </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks grimly.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I shan't have my mistress' death-lust be too encouraged.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But not too grimly.  After all, she's waggling her way closer to her beloved Harl, closer and closer.  Harley grins, pale face still a little flushed and sweaty from the prior fun, and licks her lips while moaning, "Mmm."  When Ivy's close enough, the huge, cable-like lengths of Harley's sartorius muscles bulge on both legs, pushing back the immense walls of power and flashing the pink paradise between once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy needs no further order than that-- especially not with the half-shy, half-demanding nod and bond-shared loving horniness from Harley-- to swagger her very best up between Harley's thighs.  She sweeps her head in a regal flip, tossing her long, flowing hair to bounce over her brawn-rippled back, the tips bouncing off the jiggly-fine ass Harley has promised to spank the same color.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That the motion sets her rather… superabundant… breasts bouncing about in mistress-pleasing wobbles is a bonus that gets Ivy's half-dollar broad nipples plumping to their fullest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Keeping her eyes fixed on Harley's, smiling proudly, Ivy plants her palms together in front of her face, fingers up and touching.  Her elbows are out to either side, just above the still-jostling dance of her verdant melons-- and she lowers herself down before Harley, and her favorite altar of Harley-appreciation.  That which is now her dearest altar of Harley-worship.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That sweet, pretty-petaled pussy, richly scented with vibrant Hunter-musk and Hunter-cum, the power of it making Ivy moan and blush all anew.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Thank you, Harley," Ivy whispers as Harley chews on her lower lip, watching Ivy's fecund hips rut back and forth, shaking ass and hair and damp, dark-green sex whilst she kneels.  First one knee, then the other.  "Thank you, my love, my dearest-- thank you for giving me fertile soil in which to root-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>love…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley's grin broadens, but Ivy isn't done yet.  Her knees begin close together, giant quad against giant quad, still feeling so acrobatic and lissome before Harley's beautiful monsters of muscle.  Slowly, Ivy spreads them, squeezing her glutes together and pumping her asscheeks as she lowers herself-- hands still in front of her in prayer to her mistress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Half a wife am I, but that half is more than I'd have had, sleeping in the Green's dream, only to waken when some descendant or other came calling, here or on some other world.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She exhales, and nods.  "And more, thank you for promising me sun and shelter both, that I will have good soil within which to grow, your light, your heat…"  Ivy licks her lips and purrs.  "Nourishment that rains from you…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Harley laughs.  "Stop," she giggles, the o quite the 'ah'.  "That ain't the familiarity I want from ya now, Pammie…  But thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, an' yer welcome, too."  Her strong face softens somewhat.  "Always, beloved."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ivy wrinkles her nose.  "Of course, Mistress Peanut."  As she leans over towards the sex she adores, the woman she now literally lives and breathes for, she steadies herself with her palms on Harley's powerful thighs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her strength-- and the Earth-power lent the Green-- gives her enough power to rub and massage the otherwise unyielding quads, her palms doing most of the work.  They translate and transfer the sudden burly bulge of triceps and forearms, traps and delts and most of all… Pecs, bouncing her big breasts together as she rubs in long, slow circles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I know I can't be your equal, Harley, nor the only one you love," Ivy says as she forces her body to swell and flex, pushing out with tremendous, land-shattering power, just to rub the tenseness from Harley's thighs.  Bit by little bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But that's okay; I don't even have to hope your Bondmates will be worthy of you-- they can't be anything else.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> love you, and I always will.  I promise, I'll be a good moll for you, just like I said."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Mmm!" Harley moans, reaching down to stroke through Ivy's hair.  Ivy shamelessly purrs through clenched teeth, keeping her efforts up to better rub deep-tissue, and nuzzles the red-covered crown of her head against Harley's fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My roses are yours to pluck as well, Mistress," she coos.  "If you wish them."  To Harley's possessive, protective growl, Ivy giggles.  "Well, my petals are all in your sway anyway!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She bears down with her abs, clenching herself around her sadly empty tunnel.  "I'll take care of you as well as I can; I'll take care of your plans, your places, your pets… your everything.  Just keep letting me love you, Harley."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Always," Harley whispers.  "Especially if y'keep that sorta masseusery up!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I will take what you can give," Ivy grunts, sweat running over the ripples and bulges of her one point nine-eight meter shortstack body.  Hulking out in lithe imitation of her mistress, her hands walking in slow circles and arcs along the lines of far mightier Hunter muscles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes her time with Harley's legs.  Walking her hands and fingers all along the gargantuan ridges and rippling masses of power.  As Harley purrs and squirms, she hooks the right leg over Ivy's left shoulder, her heel resting against the miniature mirror of Harley's own might.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Closer!" Harley groans.  So Ivy moves the rubs closer and closer.  Her traps tremble, bulging out and coiling into huge cables of strength, pushing out and out.  Her triceps virtually jump with the force, supplemented by earthpower.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The same energies that allow the changed Earth to jail the Hunters' power, to prevent it from destroying their home-- these are in Ivy now.  She has the strength to compel and trap lesser Hunters who find ways to work around Gaia-Geb's restrictions, if they should ravage their lands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has the endurance to kneel before the mighty of Hunterkind, and bring them the Green's warning.  To survive being a messenger to beings whose roars might well slay by accident.  Sweat drips off her, rivulets flowing through the ripples and prominences all across Ivy's broad back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It collects along her breasts, teasing her with the slickness as though lesser slaves were tonguing her while she uses this extraordinary grant of power for one purpose:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To pleasure Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Titan MassMind will understand; does understand.  Ivy feels it from her roots, reaching deep while never leaving her feet.  Is that not from whence Ivy has this power?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forever, always, rooted in the spiritual soil of the changed Earth.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Riding Poison Ivy's face, Harley surrenders more and more of herself to the Hungers she disregards much of the time.  Though Ivy wishes she could be the Hunter-wife Harley deserves, Harley is filled with nothing but love and lust for her.  Playing with Ivy's flowers soon becomes a sensual way of repaying Ivy for her expert adoration of Harley's needy sex.</p><p>Shared pleasure through the bond is abruptly shared pleasure returned and shared twice, because Harley's kisses at that rose bring Ivy to the pleasure that Ivy gives her-- and that leaves the weaker woman squealing in climax.  And it's then that the doubt starts.</p><p>Because Ivy believes with all her heart that Harley deserves that full-partner, that full-wife, the Hunter that Woodrue denied them both of her.  Harley, however, wants Ivy... and knows she's stronger than she believes.  By muscle and will, by strength and superiority, Harley forces Ivy to understand the enduring resistance that the Earth has left in her.</p><p>It's a painful lesson, and oh-so-pleasurable thereby.  But it's not the last one that Harley has for her wife...</p><p>Poison Ivy, Herald of the Green.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>With Poison Ivy trapped between her thighs, Harley's groans and lust urge her beloved concubine on.  She wields a tithe's tithe of the very strength of the changed Earth.  The power that prevents Harley's curling toes from shattering the planet yet allows Noah Kuttler to live on it unsquashed, metahuman but only of the mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To give her lover a leg massage.  Harley's powerful body reacts, her head thrown back as she moans with pleasure.  "Closer!" she cries, again and again-- and her sex, soaked, drips with temptation and commands for Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy obeys, crawling forward on her knees.  Her hands stay firmly fixed, rubbing and fondling over legs almost so thick with preternaturally empowered muscle that they nearly eclipse Ivy's waist, yet are so curved as to be graceful and beautiful regardless.  Ivy loves exploring them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With her sight and with her portion of Harley's; with the sensation of her fingers and those touches mirrored back to her, but scent-- and tempted to do so by taste, as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The closer she gets to Harley's cleft, the more Ivy's brawny arms tremble and the more her fingers drum against the pale, taut skin.  "You're so beautiful, Harl," she whispers, remembering both her place as bound pleasure-servant and as beloved, half-a-wife, within their oathbond.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Gaia-Geb and Quorum of Flowers, I wish you could send me back in time-- so I could feed her completely.  So I could be her true wife, her Hunter mate.  Am I really married, even as a lesser bondling-- if I must strain so to give her the lightest of deep tissue rubs?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels her beloved's concern, their emotions comingling within the bond.  "I love you," Harley groans.  "I love ya always-- now closer in still, baby!  I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> you!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy is happy in that at least; there will never be another </span>
  <em>
    <span>slave</span>
  </em>
  <span>, at least, who can feed Harley like she can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mere centimeters away from Harley's delightfully fragrant sex, Ivy whimpers.  "Strong and tasty, oh my…"  She kisses long and lovingly at those dewy lips, nuzzling her full, plump pair in.  None of her biochemical lipstick-- ever!-- not even merely to leave a mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wouldn't dare,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she tells herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not even to share the pleasure.  With what Gaia-Geb has ordered through me…  I can't.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not unless Harley wishes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy corrects herself; mostly.  Her internal sense of honesty winces, unsure of her strength to follow such a command.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she distracts herself with Harley-esque thoughts.  I'm</span>
  <em>
    <span> not sure how a rainbow party would work for pussy-eating…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She licks tenderly, gasping at the almost addictive taste of Hunter-snatch.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I'll do whatever she demands, no matter how foolish, so long as it helps keep her heart gleeful and free.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Thus bent, Ivy can't gain enough leverage to keep up the massage.  Instead, two fingers of her left hand come up to circle and pet at Harley's clit while Ivy's tongue greedily drinks within her; the other reaching around and beneath to squeeze and fondle as much of her superbly thicc rump as is off the booth.  It's more than enough for Ivy to enjoy, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck, you're good, Red!"  Harley half-groans, half-chuckles, and strokes further through Ivy's long red locks, her fingers petting-- but not plucking!-- the roses Ivy grows along the way.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They can't be truly separated from me, love," Ivy whispers.  "I would feel them and hear you almost as though the full bond, would you but put one behind your ear."  She winks.  "No pain, beloved, I promise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley toys with the red flower, stroking the petals as carefully as though they were Ivy's sex for true.  Ivy is already rutting her hips in time with the gyrations of Harley's; the stimulation makes her gasp, licking her tongue across both of Harley's sweet nether lips at once, then pinning them apart with her other hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The better to drill her deep, and give Harley twofold thanks for the pleasure of the petted petals.  Ivy is guided by the sensation of her own tongue in Harley's pussy, mirrored like her own.  Where </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley's</span>
  </em>
  <span> delectable folds are best stimulated, there, Ivy is made to gasp, and knows to keep her tongue tasting and dancing across those spots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her left fingers are more occupied, more disciplined.  No matter how hard the ecstasy strikes, Ivy keeps them circling Harley's clitoris, round and round to the mutual pleasure of them both.  Harley squeezes her legs carefully around Ivy, and the pleasure becomes threefold; after all, she barely has to restrain herself at all when "hugging" Ivy with her legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you again, Gaia-Geb, for nourishing me with your earthpower.  Please forgive me, for wishing I was in the cell.  Even though you give me the keys.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Encouraged by this reaction, Harley's hands come together to both stroke Ivy's topmost rose.  Ivy's vision goes white for a full second the moment Harley's hands come together there, having to pull her head back from the damp delta between those immensely potent legs.  She must scream, for her climax demands it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's, shared, </span>
  <em>
    <span>orders</span>
  </em>
  <span> the scream.  And she takes deep advantage of the sudden new connection.  "My Rose Red, huh?" she moans, chewing on her lower lip; her shredded stomach rapidly tightening and extending to accompany her short, ragged breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy grins, sweat running through the creases between her muscles.  "Always, Mistress Harl," she groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she shakes her ass, tightly squeezing and rolling her exquisite rumpcheeks back and forth.  The roses are sensitive, when the rest of her is in bloom.  Eating out Harley's delectable slit would have her face flushed with pleasure all on its own.  With the sharing of sensation teaching Ivy precisely which licks are best in the now, her eyes keep rolling back in her head with the power of the shared ecstasy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So her roses blossom against Harley's fingertips, petals reddening like Ivy's face, the surfaces sending little jolts all through Ivy's body.  Ivy can feel them, little bolts of pleasure like having her hair soaked in aphrodisiac conditioner.  Or perhaps, like no pleasure otherwise comparable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Harley plucks a rose.  The short prick of separation, as promised, has not even the slightest bit of pain to feed Harley-- nor test her oaths.  Indeed, a new bud is already growing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy isn't in much of a place to comment on it.  The pluck comes right as she brings Harley to another climax as well.  By eating out her mistress, Ivy tongues her own pussy; so long as Harley is generous with the bond, Ivy shares in her own best efforts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So as Harley brings the rose up to her lips, Ivy is already squealing between Harley's thighs.  Both palms on the floor, unable to keep up their duty, while Ivy rolls her hips and back faster and faster, squeezing her glutes at the height of each roll.  Her luscious green rump cheeks slap together in succulent waves, dancing her in place as though it was Harley's fist she was thrusting herself back upon, deep in her flooded twat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Ivy's honey leaks shamelessly, Harley blows a kiss over the rose.  "MISTRESS!"  Ivy screams, abruptly going straight vertical from her thighs.  Tits bouncing, quads squeezing tight together, she's quite erect for Harley's other arm to come up behind her, hugging her close to those powerfully built Hunter abs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, Harley feels Ivy feeling her core clench by way of her sculpted stomach.  Only her Hunter multitasking lets her place the rose behind her ear as requested.  It then joins its twin, huge forearms crossed and cradling behind Ivy's head, holding her safe throughout the explosion of pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're together in that pleasure, the sensation holding them even more tightly than Ivy's tightest hug.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Which is not so much as Harley's nor the embrace my mistress deserves... but then I'd be back to a seed again.  Damn you, Woodrue.  I love the Green… I will always love the Green…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't want to hate being made of the Green and not Hunter-kind like I </span>
  </em>
  <span>should</span>
  <em>
    <span> have been.  A real wife!  Not just a well-loved pet!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Am I even a real concub--</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy can't wallow for long in that; not with Harley's broad arms shifting and her supple fingers moving to massage her temples.  And while her eyes glisten with the birth of tears, the love that floods through the bond keeps them from collecting </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Shhh, sweets," Harley says softly.  Her fingers are there to trace the tears away before they can do much more than bead around the edges-- like precum for pain.  She touches them to her lips, and Ivy sighs, feeling Harley devour her pain with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The top fifty percent or so, she judges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sniffling a bit, Ivy plants her hands together, fingers to fingers, and rests head and hands against Harley's ripped belly.  "I'm sorry, mistress-- I thought I had no doubts left.  But…  I feel so weak.  It's not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Isn't it, Pammie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, my love.  Do you feel any envy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> within?" Ivy knows there's none to be found; she concentrates, opening herself fully to the sensory and empathic communion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Guess not.  Hmm," Harley says thoughtfully.  "I was enjoyin' those orgasms, fruity-cutie; an' your sweet patootie" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But?" Ivy rests close.  The bond is young; they must nourish it well.  She doesn't have the strength to seal it with every heartbeat the way another Hunter could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way she would if Woodrue hadn't changed her so far.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>There are geokinetics who have made the change.  Pyrokinetics.  Aerokinetics!  Why not me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, Pammie," Harley says softly.  "Yer butt is mine, just like the rest of you.  But Ivy…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The caress of Harley's fingers against another rose makes Ivy moan, stretching out against her beloved's embrace.  She forgot for a moment-- it's not just that her senses are full of her Harley.  Harley's senses are lightly spiced with Ivy-- and that light spicing contains </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Ivy is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warmth and care of Harley's love strokes and surrounds Ivy in the bond, like a second Harley, down on the floor with her.  Wrapping phantom arms around her, kissing the back of her neck.  In fact--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another stroke of the musclebound Hunter's fingers against that rose feels just like a kiss, trailing through Ivy's hair and dancing across her back.  "You're afraid of how the bond will grow," Harley says softly.  "Twisted towards the sun, or bent away by the wind."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sun and wind; mistress… and mistress' bondmates to be.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy closes her eyes, not to shut out the world, but to better see herself with Harley's eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is it egotistical to think myself beautiful, if the judgment comes from her?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "Yes," Ivy says softly.  "Or worse-- like a little garden plant, surrounded by great giants."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley reaches down and strokes Ivy's chin.  "While it's true I love yer azalea…"  Ivy groans-- not so much from the pun as from Harley's foot snaking around to rub her toes into the verdant, voluptuous plush of Ivy's tush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're so much more, Poison Ivy," she says with a soft, soft smile.  Her toe nudges; Ivy's heart thumps all the faster as she moves herself up, sitting on the interestingly textured thickness of Harley's left thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe, Peanut," Ivy says softly, forcing herself not to mistress in this moment.  "But I should be tending your Hungers right now, not making you play psychologist again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just because it feels right, she daintily crosses her legs at the knee, loving the tighter than tight squeeze of her own power, and knowing Harley will always have a full view and feel of her sex, no matter how tight and dark the covering.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially since </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>legs couldn't possibly resist </span>
  </em>
  <span>her</span>
  <em>
    <span> strength for more than a few moments.  Can I even make better </span>
  </em>
  <span>sport</span>
  <em>
    <span> than the Croc?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy had been warned.  The Quorum of Flowers had been thorough, if vague, speaking in the language of symbols and from the perspective of distributed minds.  But she had been warned that the power of a Hunter is daunting-- and to bind herself there might be to scorch herself in Harley's heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd hoped my pussy and hers would keep me hydrated enough, but Gaia-Geb! it aches so much that I am not what she deserves.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley snorts.  "Ain't play, Red," she says firmly, pulling Ivy tighter against her cushioning breasts, firm yet malleable against Ivy's sturdy-shapely body.  "It's makin' my garden grow.  An' as for gettin' more of your cunning linguals…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head.  "Yeah, not so much when you feel as much a pet as Waylon."  She gently rubs a finger over Ivy's cute little nose.  "You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> much more.  My submissive forever-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> my slave."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy inhales deeply, shaking and shuddering.  "My obedience and my love are yours; I just wish I was what you deserved."  She sniffles, and extends her left arm out, curling it up.  Her fingers and thumb come together, turning inwards, back towards her bicep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From a certain point of view, the peak that rises there is monumental.  All in green, vast and powerful, smooth top and vascular, striated edges.  Every little curve and groove outlined, crisp and clean.  An arm to turn legions of the world's best special-ops, meta-killer troops into quivering cowards on their knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yearning to masturbate to Ivy's superior strength-- but too afraid to touch themselves without a command.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From another, she is a dainty thing still.  The slinky mold she grew into even before her skin turned green, half a dancer, half a torch singer born too late.  It's a nice enough pump, showing good tone and definition-- but barely burlier than Harley's at rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Full of Harley's power, full of the growth dance.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I suppose I should be happy to be her tiny dancer; she does hold me ever so close.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"But what about what </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> want?" Harley asks softly-- and leans over to kiss Ivy's arm.  Right on the peak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oooh!" Ivy groans.  An electric jolt runs through her, lightning striking with Harley's kiss, sending her squirming, calves pumping as she kicks at the knees.  The redness flushes from her cheeks to her forehead; from her neck to the tops of her breasts, and out over the breadth of her shoulders.  "Whatever-- mmm!  Whatever you wish, my love!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wish </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Pammie," Harley urges, wrapping her potent left arm around Ivy's body.  She fights to feel the burly strength that Ivy deserves, even the wiry strength of the dancer.  It's quite the struggle; a further tear runs down Ivy's cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squirming her chest down and closer, leaning her head towards Ivy, Harley licks up the tear and smiles softly.  "What's done cannot be undone, Ivy…" she whispers, and Ivy's nipples somehow find more stiffness to harden, the right rubbing into the voluminous plushness of Harley's left tit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breast to breast; heart, to heart.  Gush to gush.  They are...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And we are together still."  Poison Ivy sighs.  "I know-- it's not even that I used to be the powerful one, I just…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Want to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> held," Harley says, her blue eyes searching up and down over Ivy's powerful little frame, dwarfing her even though the distance is less than a third of a meter.  Dwarfing her-- and enveloping her in a firm hug, pressing her breasts together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley squeezes so carefully that not even Ivy's fears of the gulf in their power rear their head; squeezes and dips Ivy slightly so that their mutual chestiness doesn't get in the way.  "I know ya want it bad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Ivy can agree, Harley smiles.  "But you can be held almost as tight as I can."  Suddenly, both arms are around Ivy, across her, a palm on each shoulder-- and the huge swells of her forearms and biceps seem awfully close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy blinks, her body trembling.  "Mistress?"  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She wouldn't lie to me… and she won't maim me, but…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley begins to squeeze.  A light embrace at first; like a bearhug meant to break the god of all bearlike things throughout the cosmos.  All that firm, fair, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wondrous</span>
  </em>
  <span> muscle begins to bulge and bulge.  "Do y'trust me, Red?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a fair question.  Ivy's eyes aren't bugging out and her ribs feel pressure but not pain.  But the raw power incarnated in those pale, taut-skinned arms would put to powder an entire petrified forest if she but flexed a little harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little </span>
  <em>
    <span>bigger</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy closes her eyes, and snuggles her arms up under Harley's incredible endowment.  Like she's holding up those delicious breasts, just atop hers, while she feels Harley's strength.  "Harley!" she squeaks as the pressure begins to constrict her lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>trust</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, Poison Ivy?" Harley insists.  There's nothing but love in the bond, love and some slight worry-- aimed at herself as much as Ivy.  But around her is power to black out the starry skies and swallow every last hope within them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really hot, honestly, just so tight!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "I--" Ivy whimpers, then coughs.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now</span>
  </em>
  <span> her ribs begin to feel the strain, compacted and compressed as Harley's preternatural strength wraps the applied force around her, rather than just along the length of her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley-- Mistress-- it hurts!" she whines.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She wouldn't-- she couldn't!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look… at me… Red!"  Untrusting of the bond (for some odd reason), Ivy opens her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ooh.  Also hot.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  What she seems makes her nipples add further pleasure and further mass to be contained in the constricting column between Harley's burgeoning muscles; makes her pussy flood so much even her tight squish of leg to leg can't stop her from soaking Harley's lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hamstrings over quads, power over power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because that is what is being used on her-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>power</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Harley Quinn, broad, beautiful, and triumphant is </span>
  <em>
    <span>covered</span>
  </em>
  <span> in sweat as she bearhugs her beloved concubine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mighty muscles swell and tremble with force.  Not just around Ivy, mammoths to the mice of the men who serve her.  But on her back, her traps swelling out and shoving visibly against her delts; her pectoral muscles vibrate and shake, bouncing Harley's breasts harder and swifter against Ivy's constricted body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweat drips over all of Harley, outlining her strength and underscoring her… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Effort.  She's-- she's having to strain to hurt me like this!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, it hurts; it agonizes the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She's feeling every rib and-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Aahhhh!" the pair scream as one as three of Ivy's ribs crack at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Red!  Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>trust</span>
  </em>
  <span> me?" Harley wails, sobbing from the resonant pain-- and from feeling the bond itself quake between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In terrible pain, surrounded by force that would mean death to every forest on every other world in the galaxy, Ivy screams as well.  The lancing pain across her chest; the burn of skin over skin on her back, bruises everywhere.  How else can she answer the question?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Ivy moans, hitting a climax of trust and pain comingling.  The instant she screams it, Harley's terrible, treetrunk-width arms relax.  Ivy's tensed muscles somehow feel the relaxation coming; they swell out with Harley's release, flowing into place softly rather than slamming out and hurting her anew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She heals almost instantly, for Harley </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> restrain that much of her strength.  Drool runs from Ivy's mouth for a moment.  The orgasm seems to be for her and her alone, somehow, as she shakes and shudders against Harley's enormous tits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley feels it, but does not own it as Ivy presumes she would own all of Ivy's and squirming, smishing her breasts out over Ivy as her fingers seek out Ivy's hands and capturing those instead.  She nuzzles under </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ivy's</span>
  </em>
  <span> chin, almost submissively.  "Thank you," she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry you had to push your oaths that close, lovey," Ivy whispers.  "I don't understand-- how can I be so much tougher than I am strong?"  She blinks.  "And how did you know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shivering, glad she need no longer prove Ivy's power on the body of her beloved concubine, Harley rests against Ivy, cheek touching the corded strength of Ivy's neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She whispers, "I didn't know it… until you needed it."  Then she winks.  "But think about it, Pammie-- does yer Gaia-Geb lock us t'the ground?  Are we caged beneath the earth, only to Hunt those foolish enough to go within shadows?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Ivy says, breathing out heavily.  "No-- the earthpower </span>
  <em>
    <span>resists</span>
  </em>
  <span> far more than it </span>
  <em>
    <span>empowers</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course it does-- that's the purpose!"  She giggles, and kisses Harley's nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain is gone; her body healed.  She smiles from ear to hear, regarding her mistress, her love.  "I suppose I'm going to have to get used to you being the </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart</span>
  </em>
  <span> one, too, aren't I?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's right," Harley whispers, her strong hands caressing down over Ivy's still-bare shoulders.  "But that's only the start."  The determination in her bright blue eyes-- and throbbing across the sensory bond-- makes Ivy shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh dear… I've only just gotten my ribs back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I gotta make you see, Ivy," Harley whispers, fondling the smooth bulges of Ivy's back and delts in a broad, arcing oval.  "You may not fully be in communion with me, but-- you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> a part of this bond, concubine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy nods, shivering as Harley kisses her ear.  Harley's tongue curls around it, stroking the lobe and teasing the curl of the helix.  The muscular giant growls, nipping the lobe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning and shuddering like Harley's love was wind through the branches over her nerves, Ivy feels her Mistress' Hungers sharpen.  Sex, Sadism, and Masochism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three Drives.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of which, since I'm not a Hunter,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks,</span>
  <em>
    <span> I can only serve for two.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  There's bitterness there; but much of it is soothed by the lingering ache in Ivy's chest.  The ribs still throb lightly-- reminding her that it took serious, actual Hunter-effort to crush her even a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So serve those two Drives, I shall.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Serve she does, squirming and rolling her hips around.  Her knees uncouple, and she pulls her hands from around and beneath Harley's voluptuous rack.  Fingers stroking along her own arousal-stained quads, she kisses Harley's lips lovingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am yours, bondmate beloved," Ivy moans, flicking her fingers along the hawser-length of her sartorius muscles, tracing them in little waves towards her bared snatch.  "How can your slut, your servant, your sweetheart-- and her sex-- serve you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's eyes glitter, and Ivy feels an odd combination of worry and desire flare in her musclebound mistress-- her goddess, in so many ways-- and she tries to reassure her with a kiss, planted sweetly on Harley's lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Pleasure transmits and bounces between them, and Harley aggressively sucks on Ivy's tongue, pulling it into her mouth to twine and flutter happily.  But the worry remains.  It does not grow, but it looms in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kiss is not going to be enough.  "I think… it's time we explored some things, Ivy," Harley says softly.  "Time we tested the bond a bit.  It's time to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain</span>
  </em>
  <span> of your proper place."  Her voice is so low and breathy that the "er" actually sounds like an "er," and not an "ah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's eyes go wide.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She's shown me my strength, enduring like willow and oak both.  Does she mean to set my </span>
  </em>
  <span>upper</span>
  <em>
    <span> bounds now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought is-- not so frightening after all.  Her bitterness was mostly crushed away by that proving hug.  Now…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now, I find out where I truly belong, to her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy vows to only weep for lost potential when it will feed her mistress well, and not turn in her Drive like a feast gone foul.  "You're right, Harl," she says cheerfully, pushing the left side of her head up and tucking her chin in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A single eyebrow raises, and she plants her palm between Harley's gargantuan pectoral muscles-- the upper ridges, just above her breasts.  Breath hot, Ivy leans in, trailing her fingers down towards that vast cleavage.  "Teach me, would you, Harley dear?" she groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's used that tone to tantalize many a scientist or professor into giving her all their secrets.  To open vaults and give her botanical and biochemical wonders to take at her leisure.  Here, now…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hopes to be the one taken, instead.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For all the love and power that flows into her from the bond with Harley Quinn the Hunter, Poison Ivy feels so bitter and lost that it threatens to shake her in the moment of Harley's triumph. She, too, was meant to be a Hunter, but the treachery of Jason Woodrue ended that forever. Granted an incredible share of the Melt power, earthpower, that was granted to the Green, Ivy has become something incredibly enduring, like an ancient oak with those treetrunk arms.</p><p>But she wants to be more. Her growth dance has left her far more than the blissful trance, living for Harley's dreams, that she had hoped for. She grieves, not for herself, not angry at Harley, but angry at fate and the obstacles set against her being Harley's full wife. With fear for what Harley's future true bondwives may be, the sadness runs through her.  But Harley is a power now, not merely of body, but of mind. She has a cure, a correction- a gift. But both of them need to remember.</p><p>The difference between a cure and a poison is often in the dose. And while Harley's powerful play for Ivy's strength of soul succeeds- Elsewhere, minds deep and dark, or deep and foul, stir. And they are about to open themselves up to the world trance...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Poison Ivy squirms over the broad and brawny thigh of Harley Quinn, Hunter, mega-amazon, and Ivy's oathbound beloved.  She was born to be Harley's wife and peer, but Jason Woodrue's experiments gave too much of her to the Green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Gaia-Geb conquered the other Kingdoms, binding them subordinate to her-his Melt, their new advising and monitoring Quorums were granted some small measure of Gaia-Geb's tremendous earthpower, so that they could make embassy to the world of Hunters, where only power makes you seem real to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, what are humans, even metahumans, to a Hunter?  For the vast majority of Hunters to the vast majority of humans, the answer is: Soap-bubble phantoms, threatening to pop not with the active use of force-- but by merely being brushed against.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the Quorums had to have peerless champions.  Heralds, of the Green, the Clear, the Red-- all the former Kingdoms, sending earthpower-enhanced messengers out to swear allegiance to proper Hunters-- or those who could become proper-- and with them, protect the interests of Gaia-Geb's newly conquered territories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But only so much power is there, not like the promised priests of Gaia-Geb herself-- yet unchosen.  The Heralds will never reach further than the lowest of Hunters, though the Green is close to Gaia-Geb.  Ivy walked out with more blessing than many-- but still knowing her Harley would be at the very least moderately powerful as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunters</span>
  </em>
  <span> count it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when she returned, Ivy returned knowing that the power that should have been hers, the power that would have made her Harley's equal and matched across the bond… was gone.  But that in addition to her much increased powers of the Green, Ivy would be granted the strength, speed, endurance, beauty, wisdom, intellect-- and so forth and so on-- that even a kryptonian would envy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could she bridge that gulf?  In truth, she did not hope to do so.  Instead, she hoped that by being strong enough to be oath</span>
  <em>
    <span>bonded</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not just oath</span>
  <em>
    <span>bound</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she would be able to sublimate her own bitterness and loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it did not.  How could it?  The oathbond nurtures all participants, heightens them.  It is the ultimate expression of Hunter synergy, by which the parts are made greater by the whole, not merely the whole greater than the sum of those improved parts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead of becoming blissfully lost in the dream of Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy has undergone growth dance.  She is now as mighty as many a weak Hunter, and the earthpower that runs through her-- and the plants under her command-- can foil that of even some not-quite-so weak Hunters.  It is a privilege; it is a place of love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It leaves her grieving on the inside.  Grieving, bitter, and angry-- not at her beloved, but at Jason Woodrue, at fate, at all the obstacles that stand between her and being a true, full wife of her sweet Harl.  Alongside this, too, is fear; fear of her mistress' future bondmates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear of exclusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she has not been excluded; the bond forever includes her now.  Harley has just finished demonstrating that the earthpower grants far more in resistance than it does in output.  That it would take Harley herself straining most mightily to even truly hurt her beyond the playful, kinky, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span> level.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But now, I must be strong in a different way,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks nervously.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunters bracket; I must help her to lock me into my place.  As she said-- time to test my limits.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, her anxiety soothes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>But wait-- this is what I </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted</span>
  <em>
    <span>.  If she helps me see on even an instinctive level just how limited my reach is… then I will be able to surrender all doubts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She beams up at Harley, who begins to spread her vast, potent thighs wide.  Ivy groans as she feels Harley's impossibly strong and crisply defined quads tense up beneath her-- especially the long, tubelike bulge of her sartorius.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mistress' bad girl muscles will help make me be a good girl, oh yes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Their breaths synchronize, and the delicious scent of Harley's pussy fills Ivy's lungs like those gorgeous, pale petals fill her vision.  "You're so beautiful, Mistress," she groans.  "I'm so glad you're making me yours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Harley lets out a low, pleased rumble, her powerful musculature bulging and shifting with pride, Ivy begins to kiss her way towards Harley's plump pussy.  Her lips and tongue tease over the huge prominences, the rippling flesh, impossibly broad and taut, so warm against her mouth.  But always, her eyes are on the beauty of Harley's slit, tilted just further along to keep the pale folds beneath blonde hair, encircled in red and blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She admires it, really.  Well-- she adores Harley's entire body, her entire </span>
  <em>
    <span>being</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course.  And pretty much every part, individually.  But her pussy?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley's pussy.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I suspect that one of the alternate but valid definitions of madness is being in love with someone's fingernails…  And I love those, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"You were saying, mistress?" Ivy asks wistfully.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should have been there with her, growing from the start.  I would have found her.  I'm sorry,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she says to the ancient mind of minds that is the Green.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just miss what I can never have.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley nods her head slowly.  "Yeah, Pammie; the thing is-- I feel you ache.  I feel you fear.  I feel your hurt, because you fear for the roots placed here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Harley's palm comes up to press against her left pec, just above the thudding heart-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is that not a muscle too?</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- Ivy wouldn't even need the bond to make matters clear.  She sighs a little, and nods.  "I'm sorry to put you to this, my beloved; my mistress."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley lifts her chin, a secretive smile spreading across her face-- and her left hand reaches down to squeeze at its corresponding nigh-endless mountain of titflesh.  Ivy's own breast feels the same, the steady knead and the delightful tugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She whimpers, and starts to bring herself closer to her mistress' already-soaked sex, towards that wondrously musky-tangy fragrance and those quivering lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley stops her, running her right hand through Ivy's long, red hair, tracing her scalp ever so lightly around the back of Ivy's left ear.  "Can't have that, my prettiful passion flower-- not when I can cure it.  Kiss me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Ivy smiles, doing her best to keep the sadness out.  "Thought I was, Harl."  She wriggles her eyebrows up at Harley, and moves closer again to the sex she adores.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nah," Harley says softly.  Ivy can feel the love-- even if she still pouts a bit.  She does love that pussy so; and while Harley's sensorium shares the taste of her sex with Ivy, even when she's not eating her out…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's just not the same as right on my lips.  Let alone my tongue!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  But her beloved is making orders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wantcha over here…"  Harley caresses herself along her right inner thigh while flexing out just parts of her quads.  The long, elegant finger moves smoothly, tracing along the interior edge of her rectus femoris, pulsing out in a huge ridge accompanied by the sartorius' almost bridge-cable like semi-striated length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like this…"  The fingertip moves, marking her sweat in a series of lips patterns, along the grooved prominence of the medialis head, and all the tertiary accompaniment besides.  "But not just your lips, y'know?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy blinks.  "You can't mean…"  She sucks her lips in a bit, shivering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know I </span>
  <em>
    <span>won't</span>
  </em>
  <span> hurt you," Harley says softly.  "But you wonder, still-- if y'can keep </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> promises t'me.  If ya think like Noah, somewhere deep and dark.  Jealous of what you don't have."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's tears flow a bit.  "Yes-- Because I am jealous, not because I want to be you…"  She swallows, hugging her wrists together against the top of her cleavage.  Her elbows dig slightly into the half-dollar breadth of her nipples, into the soft plush of the overall mammaries-- but her own sensitivity seems distant and cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But because yer jealous of my bonds t'be.  Oh, Ivy…  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiss</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The word is firm, and Ivy finds herself lowering her lips towards Harley's pale skin without even thinking of it.  But that's not all she's doing.  Her lips are growing brighter and brighter green.  A yellower green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A poison green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something she has been afraid of since before she chose to press Harley for the bond, and found herself a subordinate, and not a puppet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finds the biochemical factories gearing up for about as potent a brew as she possibly can.  Full of earthpower, her Herald's portion.  The power of it is such that she feels tingles around her lips like they were-- well.  Labia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley, this can affect you-- please!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, she made certain to give Harley an immunity to all of her myriad poisons, lest her best friend and dear heart be either slain or made a mindless slave.  Despite Harley whining about the needles, Ivy had made sure to keep up with boosters, augments, and eventually, worked up an adaptive interaction-- little not-quite bacteria that interfaced with the Ace Chemicals stew that the Joker put in her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now, she is a Hunter, and such things are transferred, even if slightly superfluous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ivy's kiss is no longer just that of her own internal biochemical factory, nor is her self-generated lipstick merely the greatest of her botanic alchemy-- the last tube of that smashed and long gone, unnecessary.  She carries the Green with her; and through the office of Herald, the power of Gaia-Geb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to explain.  "Mistress-- Harley-- my kisses will…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Work on me?  A bit, yeah.  That's kinda what I'm askin' for, Pammie."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's throat catches as she holds herself back.  "I will obey.  You know I will, just like you know I feed you this pain willingly-- but please… I don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to control you.  I promised!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>All</span>
  </em>
  <span> of it, Red.  You promised to obey.  Give me all ya got-- let's say, on th'intoxicatin' side, an' close cousins."  Harley's face is grave… briefly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she winks.  "I won't make ya put in the control pheromones; I did make you promise that.  But the rest?  Th' pleasure y'gave Waylon; the trip y'gave Noah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy whimpers, and bows her head.  Terrified that her mistress overestimates one-- or both- of them.  Still, the order is made.  "Give it to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is the Hunter who speaks, beloved and bound, but mistress to concubine.  Dominant to sub.  Still-- always!-- loving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>"I obey, mistress," Ivy says with a soft sigh.  She puffs her lips together, soaking the biochemicals into the catalyst in her saliva.  Then she smiles weakly, and plants as full a kiss as she can, right on one of the throbbing veins carrying blood to drown the Great Vampires from the time before time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ones for which the great Bowships were forged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long and strong, curvy and chiseled, Harley's leg tenses up.  Hyperexpansion pumps; the muscles beneath begin to bulge far more than just tightened flesh could provide.  The extra heft of a Hunter, pulling on sources external to reality and internal to the woman-- and increasing the flow and force of the veins, spreading the neurotoxins and aphrodisiacs, hallucinogens and trance-catalytics, pleasure and sleep and opening the third eye to sight equal to…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Hunter's.  "Yes!" Harley roars.  Suddenly, her sartorii go slack; Ivy's mind and senses are too full for her to do much more than let her jaws do the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy feels it as she feels her own leg.  Pleasure flaring, her body curls in upon itself, arms wrapping over her knees.  The wind-- she feels the almost nonexistent wind of the filtered diner air, and it scrambles her senses like she was back in the Green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreaming, always dreaming, like her roots running deep.  Ivy screams in climax; exactly in time with her beloved's deeper, longer cry of pleasure.  Harley's femmecum feeds Ivy's flowers, coats her hair and anoints her forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the power-- and the danger-- remain.  For as the strength and expansion go out of Harley's bad girl muscles-- they go right into her </span>
  <em>
    <span>badder</span>
  </em>
  <span> woman muscles.  Her adductors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The striated walls bow out in her pale inner thighs, skin vibrating over the grooved and banded broadness.  Fiber after fiber, muscle after muscle, from the primaries that would make a bodybuilder feel like abandoning leg day as a bad job, to secondaries that would make Power Girl want to pick up a gym membership-- and discretely inquire after chemical augmentation-- to the fractal tertiary consort muscles, supplementing and outlining the shapely development…  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Boom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They all come out at once, so stark that Ivy's hair is fluttered by the sudden rush of wind.  The sharing of pharmacoepic rapture means Ivy can do nothing but smile at the beauty before staring lustfully at Harley's pink-petalled and blonde-mounded pussy.  Trusting that she is safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley's enormous thighs, all their myriad muscles in stark, vast relief, begin to close.  Ivy just tilts her head back and moans-- spreading her thighs to show her own wetness-- taking no action for herself.  Her submission is as her trust in her mistress.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Total.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's eyes, though, fierce, somehow exchanging blue for red, open wide but her brows narrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunting.  Ferocity.  Pleasure so great it is pain and it screams through Harley's body and her howl shakes the diner.  Her sartorii force themselves back to tension, warring with her adductors.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oooh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks, her green fingers slipping down to her darker green mound.  She masturbates furiously, watching the enormous power of Harley's thighs inch closer… and closer towards her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mistress' muscles are so pretty.  How will I serve them next?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  All she feels is pleasure and anticipation-- and her mistress' </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley has her own intentions for Ivy, beyond her legs alone; Ivy is full of it, the stiff button of her clit all but jumping out to meet her fingers in celebration of that </span>
  <em>
    <span>purpose</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Harley has to slap her own hands down on her thighs.  Her forearms bulge and quake; their tertiaries swell and interlock.  Hyperexpansion follows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With her sartorii in stark relief against the adductors as well, it is enough.  The green of Ivy's lipstick glows in Harley's surface veins, briefly, and then is stilled.  Panting, sweating, Harley nods triumphantly at Red.  "That's… Mm!  That's my Pammie."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between her thighs, Harley's gorgeous cleft reaches climax again.  Suddenly, Ivy's fingers circling her clit are superfluous; the two are united in orgasm.  In pleasure as in love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy wants to reach for her reward.  Surely, she is to be allowed to eat Harley out for this?  But she can't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has not been ordered to.  More, she can't-- she can barely think.  The power that almost forced Harley to close her thighs around Ivy's head and give her invulnerability another test is lashing through Ivy's system as no other intoxicant or poison ever could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Among other reasons, her breasts are squooshed tight against her thighs, her arms are wrapped around all the way to the lats on the opposite sides, and her calves are grinding up against her hamstrings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's a little green ball of bliss.  All she can do is raise her gaze to meet Harley's.  All she needs is the love she sees there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her arms cling tighter, her thighs push up harder, jabbing into her breasts, squishing them back and feeding them both more rapture, more bliss, more </span>
  <em>
    <span>power</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Her small portion of Hunter hyper-anatomy responds, squeezing out from all angles.  Squeezing muscles out, but pushing limbs </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biceps, forearms, all the connections and crushing strength, swelling out along undulating lines.  Ivy's arms are so vast now, compared to what she used to be; yet she knows she's just a thin shadow of the mega-amazonian woman whose senses are pulsing through her.  Her legs tighten, calves growing so many striated subsections they feel like pineapples grown monstrous, pushing harshly against her tree-thick quads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, she is shaking and tightening the worst of all, save her endlessly clenching cunt.  There, she reacts as though </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> were tainted with the unequaled neurochemical load.  Both in Harley; both in herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Addendum.  I am </span>
  </em>
  <span>not</span>
  <em>
    <span> just a little green ball of bliss, nope.  And not just because my hair is red…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She's just a little green ball of orgasm and muscle and long, waving red hair; the difference matters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Ivy.  But above her, angels call.  Angels-- or her beloved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You weren't kiddin' about the kick, Red," Harley says with a grunt; Ivy's tear-soaked eyes look up to scan her face.  Her teeth grit together; jaw working heavily as her traps and neck tense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All along her two point three-one meter frame, like small boulders were replacing various bowling balls from delts to 'ceps; from shoulders down to arms.  The broad, taut power of Harley's pumped-out pecs, swelling behind and sending power into her expanding breasts.  The tightening begins there, smooth round softness becoming not merely larger, but harder, as hard as her biceps-- as hard as her </span>
  <em>
    <span>quads</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's thighs, of course, were already there, but between them, her abs bulge like some biomechanical armor, being grown to contain Ivy's toxin-- only deep in her ball, Ivy lets out a deep grunt.  "Whufff!"  A ridiculous sound, she knows, but it's half-produced by her abs sucking in and punching up back at her lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The aphrodisiac spreads; the hallucinogen pumps.  All the little trance-inducers, hypnagogic state triggers, pheromones-- every intoxicant on Ivy's list.  All within one little kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley's not done.  "Yeah… mm, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> kick… Ivy?" she groans, reaching down to stroke her fingers over her lovely clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Ivy a few moments to recover from the spontaneous orgasm </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> combined sensation hits her with, and only a certain natural dignity-- she learned watching Catwoman, truth to tell-- lets her catch her drool before it falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Save her sex's gush, decorating herself in shades of ecstasy.  Somewhat less dignified, that.  But, tossing her long red locks back, Ivy eventually managed to make a sweaty smile up at her love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Y-yes, Mistress?  B-back to st-... Back to your pussy, may I?  Please?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost sobs at the answer.  Ivy knew that being a Hunter's concubine would mean feeding her, but she didn't imagine it would be like this.  "N-no.  A little further, Pammie," the huge woman groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, still circling her clit rapidly with her left hand, the pleasure making Ivy's vision blank and leaving only Harley's senses dominant over Ivy's entire being… Harley's other hand strokes the same ultra-sized bulges on the left thigh.  "Pammie…  Kiss."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mistress, why?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy can feel the toxin load rise in her lips again, the green as dark as her pussylips now.  She can also still feel the original kiss ravishing through even Harley's Hunter anatomy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The power of the bond ratchets through them both.  She can feel Harley's… not distress, but disability, the chaos running rampant over even one as unbound as Harley Quinn.  Sweat once again travels over Harley, her jaw slightly slack and her irises almost swallowed by her dilated pupils.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glistens, the mighty Hunter, her muscles taut and bulging from vast shoulders to treetrunk arms; up from the earth through those starsnuffing legs, and to the core, the core, abs like proud tercios square in the center and base; curved to her ribs atop.  The flickering lights of the diner are half-blotted out as Harley's breasts swell and swell, hardness travelling out from her pectoral muscles in hyperflexion even as it fuels the deadly sexual display.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley is moaning in quiet, "Ahhh!" noises, whimpers and whines, her eyes scattershot, her sensorium confused as it flows into Ivy, making Ivy's mind ache with the strands and strands.  What does a Hunter see when opened to the shamanic?  Harley Quinn's unique brain is not quite there, but… Close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Close enough to damage.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She… she feels us both, too--  If I am to do this… If I am to obey…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is time.  A bondmate I must be.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>I</span>
  <em>
    <span> must protect </span>
  </em>
  <span>her</span>
  <em>
    <span>.  Oh, mistress, I obey!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Ivy finds strength she didn't know she had-- strength to </span>
  <em>
    <span>limit</span>
  </em>
  <span> the bond passthrough.  Though a clinical part of her notes that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> keep Harley's sensations from her unless Harley pushed hard-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Squeezed hard?  Bearhugged the bond?</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- she does not.  How her love suffers, she will.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Besides, Peanut needs to learn I'm not letting her go any more than she let me fall into my own pain.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And how can this be?  How can </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even an omega-level Poison Ivy, capable of tying roots amidst planets, send her Hunter-beloved into such paroxysms and visions?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of Harley's drugged mental threads summons enough willpower to make her mouth work.  It can't quite close, the drool dropping to join sweat outlining her now-gargantuan tits.  "Red," she groans.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiss</span>
  </em>
  <span>!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Ivy partakes of Harley's strength through the bond, and Ivy partakes of the Earth's duties.  She is a Herald of the Green; ambassador of the Quorum of Flowers.  The Earth is parent to the Hunters-- and their jailer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's kiss carries that strength.  Her promises, her oaths-- they bind her to do that which she said she would not.  Which she desires nigh the most dearly to do not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But most dearly, she wishes to serve her love.  Not quite a wife, not fully a slave.  All Harley's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To make it, Ivy must crawl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her knees won't unkink, not with her thighs still pumping in rhythmic swells and her calves bulging with so much striated power it's like they're trying to form fists.  So she arches her back, flipping her flowing hair about.  Her flowers dance-- but she slams her knees down to the ground, shaking the diner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his corner, Waylon Jones crouches protectively over his newly re-enfolded brother.  Though he has no particular love for the Calculator, he is Harley's muscle, and will protect a consigliere apprentice with his life.  In this case, his broad back and lashing tail will do, batting debris away easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the power of her toes alone, Ivy forces herself close to the long, grooved majesty of Harley's left inner thigh.  She spends a helpless moment, lost in the wonderful beauty of all that immensely developed power, moaning.  But she feels her mistress' loving impatience, growing like her strength.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's eyes search the striations and tertiaries, veins and bulk and pale, taut skin for answers.  But the only answer that makes sense to her… is love.  She smiles hazily up at Harley.  "Yes, Mistress… Peanut.  But for this-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> may I go back to eating you out?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's my girl," Harley whispers.  "Yes.  Now-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>kiss me into paradise, Poison Ivy!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tongue first, because now she understands.  Ivy strokes her tongue along the sensitive flesh.  All but functionally immune to pain but seeded rich with nerves for pleasure, the vibrating skin and the flesh beneath, the titanic muscles at their mightiest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, she adores Harley's cum so much that licking her thighs is nearly as tasty as tonguing her pussy directly.  And there's so much more beautiful muscle to adore here.  The immense mass of the primary and secondary quadriceps, and the fractal web of their tertiary consorts, with the remnant communion of Ivy's hallucinogens?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's tongue hasn't the strength to massage those muscles deeply, of course; not like her back, forced to the purpose.  But it has the strength to tickle and tease, to caress and worship the lovely, terrifying power that is Harley Quinn's leg.  She praises the curves with the press of the flat; she adores the mighty masses with the flick of the tip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When her love starts panting out repeated cries of "Yes!  Yes!  Yes!" over and over again, and Ivy's catalyst saliva is painted in that same kiss shape as the other… Ivy obeys, and kisses her beloved Harley Quinn with a full load of intoxicants, aphrodisiacs, hallucinogens, and all their varied relatives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even without the full resonance, Ivy screams first.  The world whirls, and she whirls with it.  By refusing to stop communing with Harley's senses and emotions, even if her own are sent to a trickle?  She is there when Harley reaches the great dreaming fortress from which Ivy rode out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Exposed, all her senses are triple-overlain; from Harley to Ivy, from her own body, from the Green </span>
  <em>
    <span>through</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley-- Ivy screams and creams and screams some more.  The diner rocks; the glass shatters, and only Harley's counterscream prevents the uncontrolled sonic emission from liquifying the Calculator despite Killer Croc's best bodyguarding.  Though Harley offers her a chance to shelter, Ivy refuses to stop sharing with Harley's biochemically-stimulated senses unless her beloved and mistress should reject her first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Quinn loves Poison Ivy.  Even to protect her, she cannot thus shorten the bond; the power of their love is stronger.  Too fresh, too new, too wondrous in all its myriad ways yet far, far too fragile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Ivy takes it all in.  The core of her screaming pleasure comes from the full-body climax, every patch of skin a clit, every part of her breasts like direct stimulation of her brain's pleasure-centers and her pussy itself so overwhelmed with the multi-climactic pleasure-eruption that Ivy is briefly unaware that it's possible not to be orgasming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's wrapped by further sensory headfucking; the trance taking her to a triple-layer dream, Harley's pain-- and Harley's sudden rush of M-Drive feeding-- bouncing against the very limits of Ivy's oaths, held in the fist of Harley's order; to the fire on her skin from the sensitant catalyst…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wavefront is held in place, a shimmering knot of space and air and time fluctuating as it attempts to burst free and shatter the diner as Ivy and Harley scream and scream in a bliss so transcendent and a pain so beautiful that even the greater Hunters turn aside from it briefly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Save for a dark, distant mind, alone and gloomy.  Ivy and Harley are briefly aware of the mind reaching out to them.  Their minds and the quantum states of every atom within them resonates briefly with the senses of the Hunter reaching out for them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Hunter that reaches out is like a giant squid, rising from the deep.  Like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>kraken</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Tendrils upon tendrils of senses, reaching out from the deeps unexpected by mere great whites and other trifling insects, let alone a mako and her strange little plant barracuda buddy.  Terror the likes of which Harley and Ivy have </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> known grip them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sensory tendrils wrap around them.  The mind's attention is on them, vast and gloomy, predatory and powerful, and…  Amused.  If a kraken had reached out to pet such a tiny pair of predators, they would not be more surprised-- nor feel quite so oddly safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trance ends abruptly; their orgasms take a bit longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uhhhghh," Harley whimpers.  "Why-- why should I be careful with the depths to which I push Ivy?  I need to make her understand she's a partner-- a junior partner, but she </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> fight back with those kisses!"  Breathing heavily, the gargantuan Hunter-- whom Ivy feels suddenly rather small indeed-- mumbles, "Besides, somebody's gotta feed me right up the M-Drive yin-yang, and I don't cook that so good."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy can't speak.  She knows she has to speak but she can't.  All she can do is drool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, she snaps her mouth shut, holding her hand over her mouth, and squeezing her jaws tightly, as though she wants to speak more.  She glares, her sensorium sweeping the entire room, the city, the very extent to which she can perceive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes narrow and focus on poor Killer Croc.  Furious rage fills the mega-amazon, and she begins to rise, her enormous hands bunching into terrible fists.  Nostrils flaring, cricking her neck from side to side, Harley snarls at the measly male.  "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon Jones' jaw drops, rows of fangs upon fangs open wide in shock and tongue plastering to the bottom of his mouth in fear.  "Glp?" is about all he can manage other than the rather reasonable usual terrorized reactions.  His tail freezes mid whip, and he holds up his slender arms as though to ward off the strike that Harley is preparing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy confuses Harley's perceptions with her own.  Waylon briefly looks less like a crocodilian man and more like a cartoon alligator, his scales all removed and pink skins beneath, with bulging eyes, and looking like he's just been hit with an acme bomb.  She can't see him at all on her own; she's too full of sensory overload from the Kraken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy doesn't get up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't</span>
  </em>
  <span> get up; but she wraps herself around Harley's giant left leg.  Her whole body wraps into it, her entire body required to even just avoid being kicked off by Harley's flexing calf in its giantess' mace shape.  "I had to say it," she whines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley blinks; she doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy saying something?  And then, eyes crossing, she feels Ivy's part of the bond open wider.  Together, the two chant </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ivy's</span>
  </em>
  <span> forced message in eerie synchronicity.  "I had to say that I need to remember that I am not just a helpless flower but I have resources of my own that matter on the Hunter scale or I couldn't have been bonded and I will remember that good communication is one of the cornerstones of long lasting relationships and… and I couldn't say it but I had to say it and I'd like to stop saying it especially since Harley's having to say it with me but Harley you're not mmmph."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two collapse on the floor.  "Waylon?" Harley groans… Ivy humming in time with her words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Meep?" Killer Croc asks, in the way that seven foot five behemoths usually don't-- more appropriate to how he appears </span>
  <em>
    <span>comparatively</span>
  </em>
  <span> than his actual mass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not blamin' ya.  Y'can breathe again now.  We're going to hug for a bit.  Why… why don'tcha take a nap with Noah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… am going to do that thing, mistress.  Mistress?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, Waylon?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can I pretend I didn't hear or see anything right up until the point when she kissed you the second time?  You're both very beautiful in climax but frankly, that all terrified the shit out of me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"... Yeah, Waylon.  Y'can."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ivy and Harley have recovered from their visionquest. The Kraken has receded, and Killer Croc sleeps, terrified of his owners. Now is a sweet time, a private time, loving together and loving well.</p><p>And Ivy, Ivy is fascinated with Harley's pussy- to the point that she loves it nearly as much individually as she does the woman entire. So far as a non-Hunter of her power and unusual mind can, of course.</p><p>Sharing sensation back and forth- and more judicious in the use of her toxins- Ivy and Harley bring each other pleasure. More controlled, more soft- but no less penetrating.</p><p>Ivy has no fear left of Harley, and little of her future. Plus, a terrifying entity grumbled at her to stop whining and trust. So there's that.</p><p>And that's when the story of how Noah Kuttler became Harley Quinn's begins to be told. As she thinks of taking her territory; a perpetual carnival, forever fair, an island waiting to be renewed- she dreams of a land with no shadows. But not so much of the idea of doing all the managerial work.</p><p>So she sets Waylon to searching the tunnels... And begins to explore the computer systems by the power of her sensorium and her mind. And there she finds him.</p><p>Prey.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As Waylon forces himself into hibernation, Ivy and Harley make their way back over to the shattered ruin of her booth.  Ivy walks, brawny arm around Harley's luscious ass and squeezing tight to it-- and her beloved.  Harley, in turn, has her far brawnier-still arm around Ivy's shoulders, cradling her red-haired concubine against the round and fair right side of her right breast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They survey the blasted wreckage of furnishings.  "It's a good thing I'm gettin' us outta Gotham next," Harley mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy nods her wearing agreement, and turns to lick and kiss aggressively at the burly prominence of Harley's right lat.  "Let's find a nice table I can eat you out under for a moment, my love?  There's lots of tablecloths we can pretend we're being naughty with?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought I was s'pposed t'be the crazish one, Red," Harley says with a laugh-- but starts to walk over.  "What d'ya think </span>
  <em>
    <span>happened</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, babe?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy smiles, confidence welling up in her, radiating through her.  Her heart is so glad and clear that not even the terror of the krakenish mind can dim it.  Did the kraken-Hunter not make her mistress point all the clearer?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans in, right arm coming up to grab Harley's left cheek and pull her down for a lightly spiced kiss, carrying Harley's cum and just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hint</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Ivy's finest aphrodisiac-- but no controls, of course.  "What happened?" she asks, giggling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We walked into one of the very wonders of the changed Earth, my dearest.  Apparently, the most mighty of Hunters are also marriage counsellors."  She coughs.  "When they choose to be."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley quirks an eyebrow.  "I don't recall shovin' my words in someone else's mouth on th'list of things my body told me when I woke up," she says wryly-- and reaches down to squeeze Ivy's ass.  "My booty-full begonia."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy groans, and shakes her ass into Harley's hand as they walk.  "There are wonders in you too that have not yet been revealed, my love."  When they get to the table, she bounces her hip against Harley's rugged thigh, wriggles her way out from Harley's arm, and kneels by the two seats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley chuckles weakly-- but grins from ear to ear.  If something of her silliness has been shared with Poison Ivy, it has not been lost, only copied.  The majestic mega-amazon struts over, swinging her deadly legs about and shaking her prodigious ass like she owned the place-- which, for the moment, she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once there, she stops to pick up one chair, juggle it to the other side, and place it gently by the second.  With enough room-- and hopefully enough support-- for her prodigious mass, not to mention prodigious ass, she takes a seat and stretches the undulating muscles and deep grooves of her thighs again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just to top it all off, she purrs, and strokes her fingers from Ivy's lipstick marks to her blonde-capped mound.  "Ivy?" she rumbles, shaking her tits and licking her lips.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiss.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Ivy eagerly squirms under the table-- grateful it's set high-- Harley does cough into her fist.  "But Pammie-- mebbe not quite such a powerful burst this time?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy leans in close, teasing her tongue along the edges of Harley's still-soaked labia.  "Perhaps, my love," she coos.  "Or perhaps I shall serve you another dinner for one?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley giggles, and runs her hands happily though Ivy's hair.  The latter sighs with relief, and shows her adoration of Harley Quinn and Harley's quim the best way she knows how.  By dancing her tongue sweetly against the sensitive little button of Harley's gorgeous clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, Harley's moans take off again, like she could never get enough of Ivy's tongue-- and really, Ivy knows she can't.  But while Ivy does kiss and nuzzle happily at Harley's pussy, she doesn't add more than perhaps a </span>
  <em>
    <span>few</span>
  </em>
  <span> green marks of sensual enhancement.  They've had enough of bedrugged kisses for the moment, and besides-- Ivy wants to appreciate Harley's clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just so the clit doesn't feel like Ivy's love has wandered.  Harley certainly doesn't think so.  There isn't enough room for her to hook either powerbound leg over Ivy's strong shoulders, so she teases her hands through Ivy's hair and over Ivy's roses instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers run through Ivy's long red hair, so achingly gentle most of the time-- and such hard yanks when Ivy manages to hit just the right spot or rhythm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Like now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So yes, Poison Ivy loves her mistress; loves her Harley; loves her Harley's body.  But Ivy </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> loves Harley's sex.  No matter how many times she brings her Harley and her Harley's pussy to the peaks of climax, she always believes there's more to give.  More to feed her mistress' yawning sex Drive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of her sex, her clit has a special fascination for the musclebound floral concubine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A perpetually stiff little nub, all the more nerve-laden for it, the hood retracted back…  It feels like her tongue was designed to curl against the pretty clitty.  To curl, and lap across the flat; to stroke her tonguetip over it, and wriggle it back and forth.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks while doing just that in rapid flicks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my body was redesigned by the Green to be a better lover for my sweet Harl.  So maybe, my tongue </span>
  </em>
  <span>was</span>
  <em>
    <span> made to pleasure her like this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lover, it seems, agrees.  "Fuck, Red!"  A fresh wave of Harley-juices covers Ivy's mouth.  "You do that like you were born to it!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laps it all up, fastidious as a cat, stroking her tongue along her lips just to make sure she has it all.  Then she gives the still-quivering lips a dainty little kiss.  "Mmm, Mistress Peanut," she coos softly.  "How can I not?  You guide me so well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Not just the hands, gathering as they are in her hair to squeeze and pull.  As fierce as Harley's strength and possessiveness are, she's deft and loving with Ivy's hair-roses, flicking them and tweaking the petals lightly.  It's not just by sensory communion that Harley rewards Ivy's excellence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy hides the blush of her face, primarily by burying her tongue in Harley's wetness again.  That's still a way that Harley guides her; with their senses shared, Ivy can tell exactly how her lover feels.  Can sense which fold needs more stroking; can sense which part of Harley's clit to best press her tonguetip against next-- always next, always more pleasure to give.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aww, Pammie," Harley moans, panting and shifting her broad, sinuous hips to better grind her arousal-engorged labia back over Ivy's mouth.  She may have to let Ivy's roses go-- but not too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, she does love reciprocity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it does add to a feeling of kinkiness the pair share.  Ivy might usually prefer being loud and proud with their mutual love, but giggling and pretending that-- you know, with Harley still naked-- they're concealing oral table manners of an unusual kind… it's kind of fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley, beloved-- please more-- please!" Ivy whispers, and plants loving kisses all over Harley's sex, quantity and quality alike, especially where her lips close over that beautiful, beautiful clitoris.  Always more pleasing, for that rosy bud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft tugs for soft caresses-- and the result much the same for both women.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Harley caresses them, though, it's like a second set of the other kind of petals-- second, and third, and more, all along her hair.  Each time Harley's finger touches one of her Red's red roses, Ivy's green cheeks gain a purplish underhue, the red of her blush mixing with the bluish parts of her green skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blush, and her head thrown back to press the petals closer to Harley's deft fingers; barely stopping herself before actually cramming her roses against the table!  Harley purrs, her penetrating sight showing Ivy's own muscular thighs spreading as she coats the floor in excess femmejuices of her own.  "Ahnn!" Ivy squeals, and then dips her tongue back to Harley's clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which one of them has the wider smile, it'd be hard to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> have the vision that Harley does, though she can mostly see the nerves.  Nor does she have her Harley's hyper-expanded genius to predict </span>
  <em>
    <span>every</span>
  </em>
  <span> neurochemical interaction perfectly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the necessary mind to be able to juggle uncounted plants in motion.  Often humans, too.  Oh, Poison Ivy's mind could have carried a world's worth of forests before, and that's not counting her ability to micromanage her own internal biochemical factories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, she still cogitates only barely on the Hunter level.  But combined with her own dedication, personal habits, love, and the fact that her own sex gets the sweetness her oral skills bring to Harley's honeymaker, well.  Ivy would find it hard </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to pleasure her mistress to the very heights of passion.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Disgusting.  Hard, and disgusting.  I suppose I could slow down the number of sentences interrupted with climaxes if I was ordered to, but I'd give her such a pouting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley giggles, and twines her fingers among the red strands, cupping the underside of the topmost rose.  Her fingertips brush lightly at it, evoking more muff-muffled gasps and wordless cries of pleasure.  Not to mention a long, loving set of tonguework over Harley's labia, tracing the fleshy mound and giving it such lumination as sensation can bring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley groans, reaching along Ivy's hair, stroking towards the next.  "That's-- just a little more," she urges in a similarly silly whisper.  "Just a little more-- Mmm, right there!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not necessary, but it feels good to hear the appreciation as well as feel it.  With Harley's bod too big to fit entirely front-to-back on the chair-- even with her curvy, lush cheeks pushing over the back and between the stiles like a very strange kind of thong-- it's not hard for Ivy to get in close to better caress Harley's inner folds with her tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And to appreciate all the more Harley's fingers on her roses.  Not just the suggestive caress of supple Hunter fingers against her petals; Ivy lets out a swift, horny hiss when her mistress lightly pinches the pistil and rubs her fingers down along the pollen tube.  "That feels just like my </span>
  <em>
    <span>clit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harls-- my turn to beg more, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> more!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She barely remembers to keep it to a whisper, but whisper she does.  A secret little game between the two of them, in an all but empty diner.  Themselves, two snoozing pets, and their games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Harley gives her the more she needs, Ivy brings her tongue up to dance with that well-beloved clit.  The fingers of her left hand curl into claw-like arcs, and she drags them fiercely across Harley's invulnerable inner thigh.  It barely tickles her mistress-- but then, Ivy's own devilish sense of humor comes into play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Harley's growled displeasure, Ivy pulls back from her stiff little nub.  "A moment, my mistress fair, and my mistress' fair favor," she purrs, and then concentrates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While her right forefinger and middle come up to replace her tongue's circling, Ivy smiles wickedly.  Her lips grow brighter and brighter green-- and she kisses each of her left fingertips, even the thumb.  "There we go.  My apologies for the delay," she pants, groaning-- and swipes her fingers across Harley's inner thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yipes and yinkies, sweetie!" Harley moans, tossing her head back and bouncing her pigtails.  "No m-m-more ooooh, no more hesitation, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy lets her love and confidence press through the link at Harley, to answer for her for a few moments.  She's too busy lapping up the sudden rush of femmejuices, unwilling to spare a single drop.  When she finishes, she purrs, "Sorry, darling, but you know I'm not going to let </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> dinner fall to the floor…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she lets out a long, happy sigh-- and dances her fingers over Harley's already sensitized and sensitive inner thighs.  She flicks her eyes up, peering through the curtain of the tablecloth and the imposing heft of Harley's lovely knockers, using her Harl's sensorium to make sure that her pupils are locked on her mistress's.  After all, her mistress will see and her mistress will know how much Ivy reveres her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she fills Harley's vascular muscles (and the veins themselves) with a much gentler burst of pleasure pheromones, she gives Harley's clit another sweet kiss.  Sweetly, she replies, "As for hesitation… I was ordered not to, my love.  By my mistress and a frankly terrifying entity."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Harley a little while to respond, cumming over Ivy's face.  Ivy may be a bit distracted by the resonant pleasure-- though she meters the sense-sharing more carefully now, she feels it nonetheless-- but she steadfastly refuses to let a single drop of delicious essence fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley chuckles, and stretches her thighs out again-- only to hook her heels around Ivy's sides, pulling the smaller musclewoman in tight.  "An' I do need my feedin', dearest, I do…  I think y'may be stuck down there a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not precisely discouraging fresh kisses, dearest."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not entirely </span>
  <em>
    <span>wantin'</span>
  </em>
  <span> to-- or at all!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Harley draws her close, Ivy paints a little HQ+PI heart just to the left of her lover's clenching cunny.  "Mmm-- whilst we do, mind giving your concubine a bit more storytime?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oooh," Harley pants, squeezing her rugged glutes hard and lifting herself up off the seat more than a little.  Her huge calves bulge with power, grinding into Ivy's back.  "Nope, always up for it, actually."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost doesn't need to share the sight of her eyebrows wriggling for Ivy to know it's happening.  Her voice gives the game away all on its own.  "So, y'wanna hear about the centaur from Nantucket?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I… Hmm," Ivy groans, her echo of Harley's horniness shuddering her from powerful shoulders, down to her lush tits, and making her heavily-padded rump roll and bounce.  "Perhaps-- perhaps later, Sweetpea?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To apologize for distracting from the distraction, Ivy pumps her lips and gives Harley's wild pubic mound a tingly-zippy kiss all its own.  "I would, but I do need to know your slaves, my love.  Tell me of how you called the Calculator to service?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley grumbles, and squeezes Ivy closer.  Ivy sets her knees to the ground and thrusts her breasts up against the legs of Harley's chair-- and hence, her shoulderblades against the squeeze.  Despite her sudden surge of aggressive dominance, Ivy feels warm-- and melty in the pussy, but-- in the light of Harley's pride in Ivy's strength.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, honestly, Harl-- oof, Green and Gaia-Geb you're strong!-- you're going to be multitasking like this all the time anyway!"  I'm glad I could help to settle him in, but…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes a moment to swirl her tongue over the kiss-mark on Harley's pubes, then carries the prickle of pleasure-induction right to her love's clitoris.  "Please?" she coos.  "For your Pammie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's growl is deep, aggressive, and low, rumbling with that Brooklyn gravel.  "I oughta kept ya potted, plant…  Except that feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  She giggles a bit and pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy tastes it as Harley licks her own lips, and giggles herself as Harley's rutting hips "kiss" her dampened labia back over Ivy's face.  "Yeah-- as fer Noah…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a pause, Harley's thickly-muscled legs wrapping tight and loving over Ivy's broad back.  She sighs.  "I shoulda just left 'im there, but really, he didn't even b'long in Arkham… Ooh!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The story is occasionally interrupted, but the pair of them enjoy it all quite well, nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Earlier that Night, but not Quite so Earlier…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Quinn strolls-- thunderously, nakedly, but in a strolling mindset, so it counts-- through the far-too-small halls of Arkham Asylum.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gawd.  Or Gawdess, or… whatever it is that keeps whispering me when I just want to blaspheme in peace.  Jeeze, can I say Jeeze?  A bit.  Let's go with that an' Jinkies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jinkies, but this all feels so frickin' </span>
  </em>
  <span>stupid</span>
  <em>
    <span> now…  The Bat-Jerk, Mistah J…  Little Robins all in a row.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She's seen shadows and flashes that turn other Hunters into bloody wrecks in second, all about Stately Wayne and Stately Kane Manors.  Cassandra Cain-- so </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span> Batgirl, now that Harley thinks about it-- and Helena Bertinelli, the Huntress, strong and powerful enough to terrify Harley's Hunterness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her Harleyness just thinks she'll stay out of their way and out of Gotham.  There's no point in perpetuating the old grudges, the way most of her sister Hunters are.  Her personal enemies, her old friends, the ones she shared with the Joker…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want ta leave.  It was always so petty, even when it killed people.  Always so small.  I'm not gonna to be held captive to the Joker's dreams anymore than to his fucking jokes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley has some dreams herself.  A perpetual carnival, a forever fair.  An island, waiting to be renewed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A land with no shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she doesn't want to be running everything.  She needs managers.  Waylon isn't as stupid as he used to be, but there's brain damage that will take some time and equipment to fix.  Plus, having just one Waylon is almost as bad as having just one Harley.  She needs </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's sent Waylon to exploring the tunnels.  Strict orders to evade-- or surrender to, if it will save his life-- any of the women like her that she does not yet know to call Hunters, but to otherwise search for a few names, a few humans, metas, and otherwise whom Harley would like to take with her, like blow-up dolls on a shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And even if she no longer believes that the Arkhamites are just her goofy, misunderstood friends, they are, mostly, still her friends.  She's got a couple in mind to take in as refugees.  Some of them might be even useful at making all the cool </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span> she's dreaming up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… Managerial style is a thing, and most of her friends don't have it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Waylon probably ain't gonna find anyone down there, but…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But she's checking, too.  Something is tickling the edge of her expanded consciousness.  Something useful, not just another stray to pick up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's like there are a bunch of little Harleys in me now, all of 'em linked up but only one body to drive.  Thankfully, there's all this STUFF to see and feel and smell…  And investigate.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a hole in the scents of the building, she realizes.  Traces of everyone who's left-- the inmates screaming into the night, holding nearby buildings, the staffers panicked even worse, the security guards-- they don't all match up.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The staffers…</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley heads over to one of the computer consoles.  It's password protected; three tries then a lockout; possibly a system lock</span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  But she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> the electronics themselves, right down to the molecular level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of the data is there.  Not necessarily </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> terminal.  But the servers are in her sight, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hundreds of millions of lines of code, encrypted, some of it not useful, some of it distracting, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>just how frickin' many</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the big, burly security guards </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> the doctors have Muscle Goddesses accounts.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ya gotta wonder how many of 'em were dreaming about tonight.  How many of 'em got what they were askin' for.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An' how many of 'em had enough mind left ta regret it before the end.  Or is that how many didn't?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's a distraction, and not just because Harley's taking notes-- a lot of the pages were copied and stored in the security backups.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Didn't ol' Bats monitor this stuff?  I mean, sheesh, if you count th' </span>
  </em>
  <span>guy</span>
  <em>
    <span> porn an' the </span>
  </em>
  <span>gay</span>
  <em>
    <span> porn in the genre of tights and mask…  it ain't a wonder how many of Mistah J's boy-buddies got out.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>She decides she doesn't really want to think about that bit of the past, either.  Nor the amount of porn in general, stored, processed</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She memorizes it all, of course.  It might be useful.  It might not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it's a distraction; it takes her all of two seconds to decipher the code, break the encryption, and run functional simulated systems in her head.  In the end, she has to roll her eyes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jeremiah left Astrid in the system, really?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She pauses; Astrid has administration privileges.  But Astrid… is one of her sisters now, and even if Harley didn't feel like pushing fellow Hunters is tempting but possibly dumb, there's something weird about that poor, bright kid, who grew up as-- well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Harley to the entire Asylum's worth of Mistah Js.  Even to Harley herself, sometimes.  The glimpses Harley has seen of Astrid makes her feel guilty and hopeful all in one, and she isn't certain how she thinks of that.  Let alone why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she realizes it's pointless.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jeremiah</span>
  </em>
  <span> is still in the system, and Harley knew Jeremiah's password-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>1n@r1d</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- while she was still Harleen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley misses being Harleen.  A bit.  She was limited in some ways, but much happier.  She spares a thought for her own human family; nope, doesn't look like they've peeked out of Dad's old bunker.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank the whatevah Jinkies for that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>… Then she palms her face and bashes her head into said palm a few times. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If I can see th'servers… I can see th'cameras without touchin' a damn key.</span>
  </em>
  
  <em>
    <span>Does Big Blue ever forget he's got powers?  Super-sneezing, mebbe, or super-hypnosis, or super-dentistry…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley can't command individual cameras while decrypting them in her mind, but she doesn't have to.  The panic room is, for whatever reason, completely swarmed with cameras.  The panic </span>
  <em>
    <span>bunker</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No wonder I couldn't see them.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She should have-- would have-- seen their trails, but there's only two walls that aren't sunken into the earth, and between those walls is some fairly thick earth as well.  Close enough that her vibrational sense can't see around them properly anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty-four souls-- fifteen guys, nine women-- in just barely enough space to avoid going crazy.  Banks and banks of equipment.  Even wifi, so of course, most of them are on their phones.  Looking at a world gone mad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smiles on the faces of some of the women are as interesting as the arousal on many of the others-- of both genders.  So many of them want out.  And one of them is using his tablet to play around with the Arkham security network.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very well, actually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a few microseconds to be certain; the disguise is subtle, but effective.  Who'd think that Noah Kuttler, CEO of Kutting Edge Information Management, would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>in</span>
  </em>
  <span> Arkham at all?  Much less disguising himself as a nurse?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Harley quite a while-- whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>milliseconds</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- to remember that five foot eleven is kinda big for a human, and Arkham likes its nurses, male or female, to be able to restrain patients.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>That's Jeremiah, I guess; trying to be good but forgetting details.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He never said Astrid shouldn't try to be the knight.  But he let her grow up thinking about Bat-Turd and the rest the same way I used to.  Poor girl.  Poor Bat-Jerk.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can't believe I used to have a crush on Bruce Wayne…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley has seen the ruins around the manor-- and the absence of manor-- herself.  She's not the only one who's figured the whole thing out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She just doesn't care about the Joker's vendettas anymore.  Less than a day's difference.  Freed of the Joker, but not of herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder what would have happened if Jeremiah hadn't been quite so nice to me.  Or had monitored Dr. Strange better?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Something tells Harley the past is not as mutable as it used to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sentence of the Pulse sings in the solidity of her body; the strange power of the Earth, and the weakness of everything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley shakes her head, and relegates that .  She's considering Noah Kuttler.  Or rather…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Calculator.  Now he's an interesting find, 'cos he ain't just an information broker.  He runs-- ran-- a business that's s'upposed to be good to work at an' junk.  And he </span>
  </em>
  <span>did</span>
  <em>
    <span> make that Calculator Armor stuff.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know that the internet is gonna survive how much "fun" is being had by my sister musclebabes, much less the dudes, ladies, and… other… of those icky things I want to punch until they stop existin' whenever I look at them.  I mean, none of us need to </span>
  </em>
  <span>surf</span>
  <em>
    <span> for porn, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>… Miz Quinn note to self: Get an animal-talking metaperson to produce funny cat plays, just for me.  Maybe that Animal Man dude, or Beast Boy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But havin' someone who knows how this stuff works...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And can be </span>
  </em>
  <span>made</span>
  <em>
    <span> to learn to be a polymath, and already knows how ta keep staff workin' under high-stress conditions like a tech corporation…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No reason he can't be my consigliere </span>
  </em>
  <span>and</span>
  <em>
    <span> my pet genius, is there?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley smirks.  "No reason at all," she says softly.  "Especially if he's motivated properly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She passes her hand lightly over the wall to her left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It disintegrates, the blastwave spreading out and up but stopping within centimeters forward and a few meters to the right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The earth endures.  Manmade things do not.  But as the boom settles, Harley pays attention to the security vids again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Manmade things may not endure me, but I can use men.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shouldn't every science student have a pocket Calculator?</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kurt H.E. Alton does not exist.  Which is funny, because right now, people who have only known him for a little while are certain they've known him for at least a few years.  Or, if it came down to it, however long the computers say.</p><p>"Remember when the timelines merged, Jake?"  "Dude, I only forgot the pizza that once!" "Look, you remember what it was like at the conference!"</p><p>Kurt H.E. Alton, asylum nurse, does not exist, but Noah Kuttler desperately hopes that the Arkham staff he's in the Arkham Panic Room with believe he does.  He created the false identity when he discovered that Kite Man of all people- who reuses his passwords- did a security job for a company that managed to create knockoff Mother Boxes and had bad security practices.</p><p>Right now, the Calculator would sacrifice one eye, one hand, or anything else but the other part or his children to get a boomtube anywhere.  Of course, that's just because of the general state of affairs on the changed Earth, where the Hunters are unleashed, and men their playthings/mostly reusable food.</p><p>Even Apokolips.</p><p>In a moment, he's going to be thinking about both eyes and learning braille.</p><p>Harley Quinn comes for him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Pulse has struck and the changed Earth has met its new masters.  Its mistresses, to be precise.  A little over a hundred thousand women make the change to become Hunters; they, and their daughters, will form the majority power bloc of the changed Earth and the Solar System even after all other stars have gone out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To the old masters, though, to humanity and metahumanity, this is a terrible disaster.  But they're used to that.  "Remember when the timelines merged, Jake?" Noah Kuttler asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or rather-- as far as anyone else </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows-- Kurt Alton, Kurt H.E. Alton-- asks it.  It's past midnight.  Yesterday, he was passing as a simple nurse with some experience in restraining difficult patients without hurting them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A month ago, he was the master of his own domain, an information broker and fixer for the Underlife and underworld and pretty much anything capable of using e-mail or not killing couriers.  A CEO of a middling tech company with a sterling reputation both for its employees and its general "responsible corporate citizenship."  A few years ago, he'd acquired an otherwise nameless criminal society's black lab server farm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew, from one of their former employees, that they'd somehow stumbled on a way to make knockoff </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mother Boxes</span>
  </em>
  <span> on Earth!  The Auntie Spheres had worked perfectly-- including their AIs, which, well…  </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's really not a good idea to tell the sapients in charge of your teleportation system that they're worthless slaves who owe everything to you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Their bodies were found eventually, at least.  I wonder if that was a message.  Well, I know how to treat employees, don't I?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They hadn't had a chance to purge the farm-- or their users-- before or after, of course.  Also ironic-- their encryption was so top-notch that even a team with cyberkinetic induction toys couldn't break in. Then word came that Kite Man, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kite Man</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of all people, had worked for them in their laboratory security division.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And Kite Man reuses his passwords.  I </span>
  </em>
  <span>have </span>
  <em>
    <span>the password.  I just need him to remember his username.  As for that, it's so easy to smuggle unusual chemicals-- like a truth serum with a memory chaser--  in here you'd think Jeremiah Arkham was deliberately using the place as a testbed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So he'd taken a risk.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And now, I'd sacrifice anything but both eyes, both hands, or my children to get a boomtube anywhere.  Even Apokolips!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He used to fight, back when he thought the only way to deal with the world was to show it how brilliant and powerful he was, with his Calculator armor.  He hasn't done </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> shit since before his kids were born.  Noah Kuttler is not used to taking physical risks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, he's desperately hoping that he can keep convincing people he's a genial nobody they've known for years.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fixing his term of employment had been the first thing he'd done once getting access to Arkham's records after getting down here.  It's not the first time he's changed records to suit his needs.  That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> he got down here, from a certain point of view-- tailoring his resume to fit what he believed Jeremiah Arkham would (a) appreciate and (b) let near the loonies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few little touches on the job records that made it clear he'd had experience working with supervillains without becoming ensnared in their madness or becoming brutal.  The perfect way to get close to Jeremiah Arkham, still battling his own personal demons…  And dealing with his daughter's descent into the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who would have thought it would take the personal touch to get close to fucking Kite Man?  And for God's sake-- how the hell did it go this bad, this fast?  All I wanted was the man's damn username!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he has worse problems now if he's found out.  Which means he needs to keep writing himself into everyone else's memories.  Especially the guy with the stungun.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Those are supposed to really hurt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The largest orderly snorts.  "No, I</span>
  <em>
    <span> don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember when the timelines supposedly collapsed into each other, and neither do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Kurt," the big, dark-haired man mutters.  "We just know </span>
  <em>
    <span>about</span>
  </em>
  <span> it…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Since Calendar Man </span>
  <em>
    <span>won't shut up</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it!" choruses everyone, including "Kurt."  Joining in with everyone doesn't take a lot of effort-- just start a little late the first time and mostly mouth the bits you don't know.  It's a lot like the national anthem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point, Kurt is pretty certain everyone here remembers his favorite flavor of coffee and "that one time you forgot the pizza."  Everyone likes little clues to help them remember… and then they fill in the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He murmurs along with complaints and nervous recollections of times that "everybody else fucking died!"  Nothing like horrible, horrible consequences to keep you focused on your task.  This isn't Kurt's area of expertise… but it's close enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes.  Of course, one look at the flat-out pornographic nightmare that is a Hunter-- with legs broader than his shoulders, for God's sake, and muscles that he has to keep pulling himself away from staring at forever, trying to map the fractal interplay of musculature that swells in perfect, graceful massiveness and--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, again!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He shudders a bit and murmurs something about whatever gory universal crisis the others are chatting about.  Like campfire stories, told to make your own fears about the cold darkness beyond the firelight seem more ridiculous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One look at a Hunter and you realize just how personal, just how all-encompassing the threat is.  Is there light safe from this darkness, anywhere?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a surreptitious look at his own sites-- the ones tied into the information flow from ARGUS, CHECKMATE, and the other meta-level intelligence agencies.  Those that aren't just limited to screaming are marginally better than the news sites.  But at this point, it looks like what he's going to be looking at for mere survival with his balls and bones intact is cutting some sort of deal with a less-crazy bitch when-- if-- he gets free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt-- Noah-- is not an expert infiltrator.  He is very smart, if he says so himself-- and he understands people and the levers that move them.  He is an information broker, a middleman, the guy you go to for help.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should be in my own damn panic room in my own damn mansion with my own damn guards…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Except Noah's panic room is in the center of a raised concrete bunker.  Apparently, the fault lines and other local geological issues make sinking underground facilities something of a dicey move in that neighborhood.  And that would mean he'd be vulnerable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To problems a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> worse than fifty-thousand volts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As various survivors talk about something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> other than the current crisis--  except the ones that Noah is very frightened to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the news reports, and has made an effort to be especially inoffensive at…  Karen Mills, Meghan Moonie, and Anne Friar.  Anne and Meghan are big, tough types-- both actually experimental psychologists, but apparently both into sports.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No matter what men have done, these steroids on their steroids bitches go after all of us!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just… mostly men.  And, sure, harsher on men.  And, okay, this reads like some fanfics out there, but I thought it was guys writing those--!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Mark Trace, one of his fellow men, keeps surfing through news sites with his mouth half-open and his eyes going wide…  That's triggering his paranoia even more than remembering that Karen Mills not only is a security guard and an avid martial artist…  But she has a subscription to the Muscle Goddesses dark website.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karen is "only" six-two, by her personnel files.  And has no other connections to the orgs or the underground dojos involved with the pre-Pulse antecedents of beings he has only just learned are called Hunters, or the Cult of the Empress Widow that his hasty search has been able to find.  But she's big, and she's strong, and Noah is really glad that the one person in here with a stun gun,  a weapon of any kind has reasons to fear betrayal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And not, say, a fetish and personal connection to the women currently ending the world.  Noah is already aware that his little refuge here is at best temporary.  It would have been even if everyone else in the room had been men without a submission kink.  After all…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's full of Arkhamites.  Just because you have the keys doesn't mean you don't belong.  It makes Noah want to twitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The number of times the staff here have been reduced below </span>
  </em>
  <span>one fucking percent</span>
  <em>
    <span> of old numbers is insane in and of itself.  It's not astonishing that the boss's daughter went nuts, the boss is creaky, and so many of the psychiatrists and other members of my fellow eggheadia have gone insane.  It's astonishing that there aren't fucking lunatic cults and Lovecraft-style hidden altars in everyone's locker!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt checked.  He still knows how to pick a lock, and after the third day on the job, he wanted to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>really sure.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Besides, it gave him more personal details to wield and a couple of blackmail possibilities if he really needs them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If any of that matters anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's sitting "nonchalantly" in a corner, periodically making a few changes in his tablet game.  An embarrassingly cutesy variation on scrabble that somehow has something to do with remodelling with an implausibly thin female lead and her implausibly handsome neighbors.  A perfect excuse if he has to fumble with it to change screens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt is keeping track of matters, and they're bad.  Only one of these mutant beefcake women showed up in Arkham-- that he's seen-- but that's </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley Fucking Quinn.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>(Other than that blur he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopes</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a speedster, and not another Hunter...)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Completely insane even before the Pulse?  Check.  Dangerously competent when not bogged down by her "agent of chaos" boss?  Check.  Vengeance </span>
  </em>
  <span>against</span>
  <em>
    <span> said "agent of chaos" boss ending lethally?  Check.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And since she was in love with the freak… she's just cut her ties to the last bits of humanity and compassion she's ever had.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Kurt isn't particularly sexist.  He's not particularly feminist, either.  He doesn't give a shit about anyone not named Noah Kuttler or Wendy White.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not particularly involved in </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone's</span>
  </em>
  <span> crusades.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt-- Noah-- just knows that the fewer waves he makes, with his public corporation and his private dealings, the less attention he gets, and the more loyal his employees are.  Shaming one idiot who can't keep it in his pants or thinks his boss lacks an important qualification for the job in </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> pants, convincing all of your female employees that you give a shit about them…  Worth the weight of the idiot in Fourth World tech, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Oh, he can't possibly be involved in anything shady!  Why, when that jerk in accounting kept looking up our personal information, and HR wouldn't do anything, he intervened!"  I mean, it's not like I have an interest in making sure nobody stumbles across my </span>
  </em>
  <span>real</span>
  <em>
    <span> income stream, is it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Otherwise, it's like keeping that bitch Poison Ivy off my back with eco-friendly.  Eco-friendly doesn't just keep one nutcase away, it makes several nutcase </span>
  </em>
  <span>organizations</span>
  <em>
    <span> willing to scream to the entire world in your defense.  It's all so damn easy!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Or it had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right up until the Pulse, as far as Noah knew, his life was going to consist of finding Kite Man, bribing Kite Man-- why torture when there are so many ways that don't make you an enemy?-- and getting the hell back to being a king of his own little domain.  An éminence grise of the Underlife, with possibly some new technology.  Big enough to be safe, but not competing with the real nutballs like Lex </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> Luthor.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right now, what I want to do is wait here until Harley Quinn gets bored and runs away, hide until the morning, find some way to make my way out of here without being betrayed or killed, and find one of these crazy bitches who isn't so crazy as to want to rape her own vizier.  I might even end up being the mind, if not the power, behind the throne somewhere.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I might be able to keep Wendy safe.  Presuming she isn't one of them.  God… I don't know whether to hope she's safe somewhere with her superhero friends…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or if she </span>
  </em>
  <span>is </span>
  <em>
    <span>one of them, and not a victim waiting to be targeted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Trying not to think about that is about as hard as trying not to keep peering suspiciously at Karen, or from jumping in on every sentence someone makes with "YEAH ME TOO HEY DO YOU REMEMBER ME THREE YEARS AGO WITH YOU AT THE PLACE WITH THE THINGS?"  At least, not as tired as he is.  It's time to recharge; there's nothing more he can do from here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let Karen, Mark, Meghan, and Anne stay up.  Let them spend their younger bodies' extra reserves of energy looking at all the horrors they want.  He wishes there was some way that Jake could nap without trusting any of the others with the stungun-- but everyone understands why he's going for energy drinks rather than relief.  But Noah can rest, even if he can't really, truly afford to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah-- Kurt-- shuts down his connection to the system, switches to his camouflage programs, and leans back in his corner seat </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, but pays attention to what he's hearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karen chatting excitedly with Anne about how it's terrible, surely not all of the networks are showing every detail… let's check the next streaming site.  Jake's teeth grinding.  Chairs and shoes scraping the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Drowsiness surges over Kurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes feel like he couldn't open them if he wanted to; his cheeks feel like they're being dragged towards his jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces himself to pay attention to what he's feeling, too.  The itch of the deliberately unfashionable but cheap pants.  The pressure of his feet against the floor.  The hairs on his arms under his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We all get old.  Unless you don't.  I'm sorry, Marvin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt-- Noah-- hasn't thought of his boy in a long time.  He still blames the Titans more than Ares.  The Titans brought him into the life-- and didn't bother to protect him or teach him to protect himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course… He's also not out there stuck between the thighs of a woman who's going to break his jaw </span>
  </em>
  <span>or</span>
  <em>
    <span> break his jaw and then disintegrate his head anyway.  There are worse ways to die than being torn apart by a hellhound, I suppose.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The right side of Noah's head aches more than the left.  Like the ear is pulling him off to full sleep, or something.  He bites his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Taste.  My own lip.  The remnants of the last bit of coffee.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes slowly.  The fog of exhaustion has him, but by concentrating, he can surf on the edge.  Rest, without sleeping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BOOM!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kurt!</span>
  </em>
  <span> he reminds himself-- jerks to his feet, his tablet knocked clean out of his hands.  He goes right for it, ignoring the explosion on the wall-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh fuck oh fuck what did I miss</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- well, not looking over there yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's too much that's</span>
  <em>
    <span> useful</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the tablet… and even more incriminating, if he hit the wrong button or something on the way down…  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the one to his sabotage package.  If the knockout gas starts flooding and the recirculators send it here…  Worse than incriminating.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd also rather not be here when </span>
  </em>
  <span>my</span>
  <em>
    <span> boom hits if I have to go that way...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No one-- not even the Calculator-- is paying enough attention to hear the sound of two taps coming from the bank of monitors opposite the breach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt fumbles for the tablet.  He manages to catch it before it hits, and all he does is lose his streak in the Scrabble Townhouse game.  Looking up, though, he suspects he should have just let it fall then pick it up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one is looking at him.  They're all staring at the two meter breach in the wall.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>How did they-- or worse yet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she</span>
  <em>
    <span>-- make it through that wall but not the others?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  There's just so much that they don't understand.  So much impossible to calculate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more taps that no one-- not even the Calculator-- is paying enough attention to hear.  A little bit more impatient.  A little bit louder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cloud of pulverized concrete and who knows what else is such a freakishly smoke-like white that Kurt finds himself double checking that he's not wearing a clamshell helmet and carrying an especially ineffective "blaster."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After all,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, more than half hysterically, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what's coming through is going to be over two meters tall, be fond of choking people, and be utterly unstoppable by us.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing comes.  The plume clears.  Past the breach is…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A far too obvious trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they all consider it, swallowing heavily, praying, or with whatever various signs of fear arousal or more vicious arousal as individuals might partake, none of them, not even "Kurt," yet have registered the tapping sound as anything but irrelevant background noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three taps this time, rapid, loud, crackling over the speakers.  But no.  Their eyes are still on the awful gap; focused on what they are sure is a trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been more than three meters of reinforced concrete is now something of a tunnel.  Surprisingly ovoid in the entrance, exit, and the form of the tunnel itself-- not entirely regular, not like it was cut.  But smooth enough walking and space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bright lights of the panic room illuminate what looks like the ruins of the male guards' personal belongings locker room past.  Kurt's been through it a time or two over his infiltration stay, but there isn't much light there.  Hard to make things out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tap, tap, </span>
  <em>
    <span>crackle!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  This time, Kurt and several of the others turn around fearfully.  All there is to be seen is a dead monitor.  No transmission.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh shit.  That's the one at the entrance to the… personal lockers.  Whoever it is is close-- and doesn't want us to see them.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Kurt's eyes go wide and his back teeth grind together.  He tries to regularize his breathing as his heart rate races.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is this how rabbits feel, seeing a bent branch at about wolf-height?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, like everyone else, he stares </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> more thoughtfully at the breach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there's rubble there, not just near the wall that was-- cut?  Punched?-- broken through.  And dead opposite the tunnel from </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>… is another tunnel, further out.  The trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, right, we walk out and maybe make it one or two breaches down the road before we're snatched.  But why?  Is there something about this room that repels them?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>None of his other fellow survivors look any more special than Karen.  Nothing particularly unusual, no cover gestures.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>If it doesn't look like there's nothing holding her back...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She's probably just playing with us.  Shit.  Maybe she'll take the ones who go out first, first and the rest of us can run out the actual door?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ya know, I know it was a big boom, but, uh… do </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> of ya have survival instincts at all?  Askin' fer a friend."  The harsh Brooklyn accent has strange harmonics to it; delightful and intriguing all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except for how cranky it sounds.  And how deep.  And how </span>
  <em>
    <span>behind them!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turns back at once, like they were being yanked around by her voice.  By coincidence-- maybe-- she's standing in front of the camera leading to the monitor to the left of the one showing nothing but static.  She's standing just close enough that her head is clearly visible, but there's enough field of vision to show off the body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if there was any doubt.  Harley Quinn, Hunter.  They'd all watched in what Kurt had believed to be fascinated horror.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>How many quislings am I in a room with?  One, two, three, four…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least.  At the very fucking least.  I'm going to die.  I'm going to be raped and then killed, possibly not in that order!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweat drips down over Kurt Alton's face, from his shoulders, and arms, soaking him to the very bone.  His hands tremble and his fingers seem so loose on his tablet, even where the sweat hasn't dripped yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw doesn't seem to want to close.  It's not just the fear of those around him.  Quinn has taken exquisite care to frame the shot, almost as though she could see it from their side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's got her broad, powerful hands on those exquisitely wide and shapely hips of hers.  This particular woman of the costumed underworld always had-- in more opinions than his own-- a superb butt and hips, it's true.  And he has seen, willingly and unwillingly, more of both hers and other Hunters' this evening than is strictly wise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even comparatively, the hips on which she rests the back of her knuckles, forearms turned out and elbows akimbo, are in fact, truly and immensely gorgeous.  Everything about her hips screams out a demand for sex-- on her terms.  The arc of the curve itself, the ratio of jiggle to firmness-- the mere proportion of the hips themselves to her shredded stomach… it's all beautiful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That stomach's gorgeous as well, powerful abs mostly rigid with just enough flex on their striated borders to make it clear this isn't some mockup or hologram of a three-d imaging program, or something.  Moving, powerful, yet still graceful abdominals, looking warm and inviting somehow, despite how terrifying they are in their bulging strength.  There's not enough detail to make out the belly button but Kurt has a horrified feeling that would be beautiful too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Horrified, because every aspect of her that is beautiful which he can comprehend-- he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> had more problems with the later than the former!--seems to already be raping his mind.  Wendy and Marvin's mother was a short, willowy thing, lithe and kinetic.  But she was determined, too, stubborn-- not a manic pixie dream girl type in anything but body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.  Not a model, not a supervillain.  She didn't have the "perfect aspects" that seem to go into most female members of his strange little community of costumed freaks-- on either side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she was his definition of beautiful.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Now?  It's whatever Hunter he's looked at last.  And that is definitely Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's already noticed that the more he looks at their pictures, the harder it is for him to remember that the women in the room with him are women at all.  And with Harley standing there, looking intently at the room, searching for something… He isn't just having problems remembering why such a tiny thing could be more beautiful than a nigh-divine muscle queen like Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's actually having problems remembering his ex-wife at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  At least… the important things</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face.  Her shape.  Her personality.  All the things that made for a whirlwind, if sadly doomed marriage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, every time Kurt-- Noah-- thinks of love, of attraction.. He thinks of a massive, powerful woman.  Where thin and graceful once stirred his cock the best, now, muscles and enormously oversized secondary sexual characteristics force their way into his head.  And the most recent musclefreak dominatrix bitch… Wins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially this one, he realizes, head growing faint.  As he watches her on the screen, he tilts his head to the left in unconscious imitation of the musclebound goliath on the monitor.  Her full, strong face is the closest to the camera, dominating the display with her honeyed lips, hungry smile… Even the elegant cast of her cheekbones seems to be refined to enhance her smirk and her smugness.  Making sure everyone knows that they are looking at the woman in charge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's got a hardon again, throbbing far worse than early overexposure to pictures caused.  Harley is focused on hi-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>On the room I'm in!</span>
  </em>
  <span> he desperately hopes, and that makes it seems like it's her lips that would be draining his balls dry through his cock, holding him up like a drink cup.  Like it's her muscles that would-- that </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- be wrapped around his body, crushing him until he orgasmed from the pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Also not something that he'd ever found sexy before, from either side.  Noah killed or tortured as cleanly as he could, unless his personal temper got involved.  He tried not to gloat or monologue, to just get done what needed to be done without getting bogged into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, his cock is starting to suggest that if he isn't being spanked or punched soon, it may try to separate from his groin to seek out a vicious mistress all on its own.  Now when his eyes linger on how </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> the bowling-ball-esque masses of banded muscle right below her elbows are, or on the massive hands beneath, he finds himself clenching his ass in anticipation of having it being swatted.  His mind, his glands, his everything-- it's being conquered before a single punch is thrown.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>which is probably good for survival those punches hurt I deserve hurt oh god.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah-- Kurt-- wants to clutch his head in his hands and turn away.  He wants to pull his pants off and jack off, drooling over her supremely developed muscles and supremely huge breasts, and forget he even knows what thin, small women look like.  Just to get on his knees and bring himself to orgasm again and again until she caught him, beat him, or killed him.  Or all of the above.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a supreme effort of will to do no more than hug himself tightly, clinging with the tablet to his chest.  But he does it, cringing back, grimacing, almost crossing his knees over each other while his dick's stiffiness rubs against his boxers, forcing out beads of precum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not the only one, male or female, cowering in a similar manner.  Nearly a quarter of his fellow survivors-- including the ones he was unsure of, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them-- are either not fighting it, or can't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their pleasured cries are soft and strangled; choking themselves off to not interrupt her, should she chance to order them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst, though, isn't even how powerful her beauty is.  Not just the muscles, turning him into a fetishist.  Not just the breasts, somehow shapely despite a mass that should be absurd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's her face.  The blue eyes of Harley Quinn-- since she was shoved into that vat of chemicals-- have always held great rage, passion, sometimes even happiness.  Whatever emotions she had, she experiences them for the world to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The perky pigtails, still dyed one blue, one red on the tips, still match the broad eyeshadow.  Still show off the harlequin in her.  Only </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> jester has killed her prince, and looks ready to devour the first five knights that come to avenge him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One way or another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, her emotions radiate out across the screen as though she was stepping through it.  Like a portal.  Enlarged to half again her old height and more than twice the breadth, her similarly broadened eyes are so bright with her emotions they burn.  Acquisitiveness.  Hunger.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Want</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he realizes, looking at the feral breadth of her smile, spread just far enough to show off her teeth-- especially the canines.  At the way her jawbones grind and shift, despite her clear (and to be fair, probably justified) feelings of physical superiority and power.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not want.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Need.  It's what all of them had, fucking or killing or standing still.  Terrible, horrible </span>
  </em>
  <span>NEED</span>
  <em>
    <span> that's ready to swallow me up just like her beauty like her muscles like the contours of her body</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt is grateful and dejected all at once that the only thing he can see of her pussy is the strikingly lush outline of the mound, and the blonde muff with a hint of something else he can't quite make out.  He's forced himself to stand, holding his tablet against a shuddering chest that feels spindly and weak.  Not just a ninety-eight pound weakling.  A </span>
  <em>
    <span>forty</span>
  </em>
  <span>-pound weakling, aged and withered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could see that sex…  He'd lose the fight to avoid jerking himself off until he came himself stupid.  He knows it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt Alton-- Noah Kuttler-- is a CEO and an Underlife information broker.  A ruthless criminal with reach that's worldwide and even a bit off planet.  And yet, looking at Harley Quinn's mega-amazonian body and horrible, bewitching, awe-inspiring terror of a smile…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he doesn't want to jack off until he's raw, he wants to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quinn gives them all a few moments.  Smirking at the camera, flirting her shapely hips from side to side, flexing her huge deltoids and traps a bit to tease the camera… Flexing her pectoral muscles to both bounce her voluminous melons at them </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> show off her enormous chest's enormous strength…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gives them time to realize just how fucked they are.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is it.  Noah Kuttler, calling himself Kurt Alton, is at the end.  He, and the rest of the (putative) Arkham Asylum staff are staring out at the monstrously beautiful and gorgeously muscled form of Harley Quinn.  Hunter, former inmate, and former staffer, herself.</p><p>Except while Noah got hired, under way false pretenses, it was just to get access to Kite Man and his username.  He knows he could be off-planet right now.  If only he'd been able to pull the right shift.  Because he's the Calculator, a CEO of a tech company- and an underworld information broker.  He should never have been here in the first place; one of his people could have, should have done it.</p><p>But he's here, and Harley wants him.  He hopes to avoid her attention- and fails.  Then he tries desperately to convince the others to fight back so he can escape in the confusion.</p><p>It wouldn't work, but that fails too.  Harley gives his "friends" quite the rundown on the unpleasant surprises he'd kept in store to make "Kurt's" disappearance seem real- and permanent.</p><p>When she puts it that way, when they have to choose between trusting monsters- they choose Harley.</p><p>She told them to, after all.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Was it greed?  Was it overconfidence?  Was it the boredom of success?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever sin doomed him, Noah Kuttler, the man called the Calculator, is learning its price.  When he discovered a main chance at an </span>
  <em>
    <span>effective</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mother Box knockoff blueprints, he went for it.  An otherwise security-paranoid superteam hadn't had the chance to purge its authorized user roster before the ironic death of its primary leadership.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A user roster that included the notoriously lunatic but </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> dangerous Kite Man.  Who, while in Arkham, was not in the high security wing, nor should he have been much of a personal threat.  So he'd calculated that it wouldn't be much of a personal risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why had he done it?  He had other infiltrators in his employ.  He was well aware that the personal touch was unnecessary-- and dangerous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greed-- quite possibly the ultimate technological advantage, misused by fools but nearly without calculable price.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Overconfidence-- the idea that he could spend a few days tricking the little people in their tiny lives, then go back to his own without being touched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boredom.  Not often a sin, except that when you're in the supervillain business, complacency might as well be blasphemy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he's not bored now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Pulse happened a few short hours ago.  With less than fifty other staffers, he made it into Arkham Asylum's deepest panic bunker.  There, they seemed likely to ride out yet another apocalypse, this one of musclebound, ultra-powerful women, until the Justice League or whoever could handle it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only… the Justice League was pretty badly </span>
  <em>
    <span>handled</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The Pan-Asian Defense Combine lost </span>
  <em>
    <span>six</span>
  </em>
  <span> of its heaviest hitters… when they became Hunters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now, Harley Quinn, ex-coworker, ex-patient, definitely a current Hunter, has come </span>
  <em>
    <span>knocking</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  A huge breach has been opened in the reinforced concrete of the bunker's walls.  She's taken a bit to get everyone to focus on the camera she's communicating through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, she broke one earlier just trying to tap the dome loud enough to get them to turn around from the breach.  But now… whether in fear or lust or both, everyone is looking at the curvaceous mega-amazon filling up the screen with brawny beauty, lush curves, and a smile to swallow all their hopes.  Whether they intend to resist her, surrender to her, or obey her…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all must look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, good, I got yer attention.  I was startin' to get impatient.  Nobody wants that, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one in the room does.  No one in the room speaks.  They just stare at the monitor, and the face of Harley Quinn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right, so--  Good news!" she chirps, clapping her hands together in front of her tits and rubbing the palms together briefly before going back to leaning the backs of her knuckles on her pert-plump hips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean it, guys!" Harley says brightly.  "Such long faces… it's like ya don't believe me… or for some of you, like ya don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to give you good news!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her laughter rings out.  What it does to her breasts' mass, her abs' sculpted majesty, and her rolling, rippling shoulders is fascinating to the point of being hypnotic, and that's making Kurt and everyone else drool, man or woman, straight or gay or bi or otherwise.  They lust for her body in power and in plush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they fear the echoing terror of that laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So!" Quinn says, coughing as she finishes her laughing fit.  "Right, the good news!  Everyone gets to leave!  You can all go out through that breach with no trouble from me..." she says, smirking.  "With one condition-slash-exception."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right, like anyone can trust you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hunter</span>
  <em>
    <span>.  What's the condition, we come out without our clothes on?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> "I'll leave ya be-- as long the first people through bring me Kurt Alton."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't comprehend it at first.  Neither can any of the others.  After all, he'd convinced them he was their longtime friend.  And what interest would a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunter</span>
  </em>
  <span> have in just one, ordinary nurse?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hunters see everything,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he remembers.  And that's it.  The shock almost kills him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt's heart nearly stops. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no.  Oh no, oh no, oh no!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The entire room's attention is on him, and the harsh, mocking laughter of Harley Quinn comes across the speaker once more.  "I mean, Kurt H.E. Alton?  Anagrams, Calcs?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh fuck m-- no, wait, don't fuck me!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Something of his self-preservation instinct seems to be retained.  He shakes his head, letting his panic and fear show.  "What?  Anagrams?  The hell?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt doesn't have to fake the slight stutter, the bulging eyes, or the cringe, curling back on himself.  He doesn't have to fake wrapping his arms around his tablet like it was some magic talisman that could make all of this untrue.  Because the Calculator is so terrified, he can barely think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, it was the Joker's laughter they feared; but they all saw what happened to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Even if they hadn't, the laugh that comes across the speakers is far, far more terrifying.  Not as lengthy or hooting; it packs more punch into derisive, slashing chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, come on.  An anagram's just lazy.  You couldn't even go with Tex Piper?  Texas Instruments, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw drops.  "I don't know what she's </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking </span>
  </em>
  <span>about!" he screeches, shuddering.  If the others-- including the far-too-eager Karen-- see tears of panic starting to form on Kurt's face...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's because they're fucking there! </span>
  </em>
  <span> Quinn's awful laughter goes on.  "Oh, yeah, guys.  You gotta supervillain with ya."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dead silence.  Kurt-- Noah-- isn't sure which is worse.  The quiet, blank stares on the people he'd been so close to completely convincing he'd been with them for the last several years...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or the speculative glee on the face of Karen Mills.  A woman he has good cause to believe wants to please a Hunter.  And now has a way that might not involved getting tased by Jake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's three inches taller than he is.  And there's a non-zero chance that no one else has noticed her particular </span>
  <em>
    <span>brand</span>
  </em>
  <span> of interest in the Hunters.  All she has to do is justify it…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Time for the performance of your life, Kurt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt looks from face to face, forcing himself to hold back some of the trembles-- too much fear would be suspicious.  "Guys… You know me.  And yeah, I know a lot of us have gone 'round the 'bend, but when the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> would I have time to supervillain?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds up his tablet like it was a testament to his innocence.  "No calculators, no calculations--"  </span>
  <em>
    <span>that I hope you'll be able to find anyway--</span>
  </em>
  <span> "No nothing outside a couple of apps and figuring out how to shop and sleep around double shifts.  Jen-- I did Christmas for you last year, you remember, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jen frowns a bit.  A "fellow" nurse, she did in fact have to find someone to take Christmas off last year…  Of course, Calvin James, the real guy who covered for her before "Kurt" began inserting himself into the records, quit the job several months later, so he isn't here to dispute Kurt's claim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The others are starting to look troubled; the would-be-quislings look like they want to interrupt, but he keeps talking.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can't let them suggest it doesn't matter.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "When do I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>time?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I have student loans, for God's sake-- I work every shift I can--  Fucking hell, guys, is this how I get thanked for picking up your overtime?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to babble pleas to the whole room.  Looking from face to face desperately, begging for some intervention.  Even Quinn is sucking her lower lip in, chewing on it in a way that makes his stomach twist to the point of near-retching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dry heaves are real.  The tears are real.  The fear, of course it is.  He is, indeed, begging for his life.  But the real hope he's got is that one of them will decide to be a hero.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is perhaps literally his only chance.  He doesn't really have any hope they'll keep him, then try to hold the breach against her.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fucking Superman was beaten by these bitches!  Hell no we can't fight them!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as he begs for them to "stick together" and "not let her place us against each other," he's thinking no such thing.  In fact, he's trying to look as wan and weakly as he can, even knowing that will and does excite the horniness in Quinn's eyes-- hell, in Karen Mills' eyes and those of her cronies!  He doesn't want them to try to fight, oh no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kurt-- Noah-- wants them to think he'd fight for them, so that one or more of them will shout something heroic and ballsy at Quinn.  Maybe, if he's really lucky, something sexist or contemptuous.  Something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> that will draw her attention away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only needs enough time to get out through the breach and to the emergency stairs.  The "beater" under his name in the employee lot has a black market boom tube beacon knockoff.  No Mother Box, experimental and dodgy as hell-- hence why he's here for Kite Man.  But he'll take a bad chance over no chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that's exactly what they'd have if they tried to fight.  None.  Of course, he's suggesting the opposite while looking as pathetic as he can.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just need one hero… more would be better but just one to get her attention...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please!" he tells them.  "Jermaine, remember when your kids were grabbed by that sicko?  We all got together--" </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you</span>
  <em>
    <span> all got together--</span>
  </em>
  <span> "and took care of it before even the fucking Bat could get involved!  We've got a chance if we stick together and fight-- but none at all if we turn on each other for her jollies!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Quinn wants him, she'll eventually take him-- as long as he's in her sights.  But the same emotions and </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> that make their insane power even more terrifying, the chaos and the hunger and the rage… make them distractible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If one of them gets defiant-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> one of the other men-- they may get Quinn horny.  If she doesn't cripple "Kurt" to keep him from getting away</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jake has been driving himself to the brink of exhaustion, watching for quislings inside and keeping himself by the official door, determined to protect them from themselves and others.  He could do it.  He's stood up to Arkhamites up to and including Two-Face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Larry might.  He's big, burly, and half-convinced he "coulda taken the Bat."  And he's a sexist fuck who was already "quietly" muttering that Jan, Ava, and Karen-- all of the women over five-ten-- "could turn at any moment."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The son of a bitch still hates Ava for beating him at arm-wrestling.  He had no fucking technique-- or any respect for a woman who played rugby in college all four years </span>
  </em>
  <span>and</span>
  <em>
    <span> kept up a nurses league at her last hospital before coming to Arkham.  All I have to do is get him past his bully's cowardice and start yammering about how "we don't bow to no crazy bitches" or something stupid like that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There are others.  He can see them start to shift.  Even Karen's looking uncomfortable, like she remembers the difference between fantasies, reality, and reality that's bizarre enough and far away enough you can pretend it doesn't matter because it happened to other people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Quinn giggles.  Oh, it's deeper than her usual, but it's still a hee-hee-hee sort of thing.  "Oh, God, he's really gotcha going.  Man-- he's askin' questions so fast none of ya even have a chance to answer… let alone think an' realize no, you only heard him </span>
  <em>
    <span>talkin'</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Eyes are drawn back to her, including "Kurt's."  A mistake.  Her fingers are rubbing idly over nipples so big that they look like broad, flat cans done in crinkly pink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pleasure of it is making her cheeks redden against her extreme pale, her beguiling hips shift back and forth, and her potent shoulders squirm up and down.  Quinn is showing them what it looks like when she's pleased, and even Kurt-- even Noah-- wants to earn some way to kiss those nipples, to kiss her pussy, to kiss her </span>
  <em>
    <span>feet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Any way to be a part of that pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces his nails against his skin, digging pain in deep.  It may feed her-- may arouse her more-- if the rumors are right.  Of course, if some rumors are right, she should have eaten the Joker's corpse or drained it-- and Waylon-- into withered husks to become even bigger, so… </span>
  <em>
    <span>So it doesn't matter!  Just stop thinking like her!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Masturbating, guys," he whispers.  "She's jerkin'--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey!" Quinn interrupts.  "I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>jilling</span>
  </em>
  <span> off, thank you.  Okay, there's a bitta jerkin', but still."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, great.  Now she's tugging those bovine-- elephantine!-- teats around.  Yes, that's a way to get the other guys here willing to be stupid at her, alright… just not a way that will distract her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"And she's playing with our h-- with our minds!" he quickly whines.  "Kurt" knows that's dangerous but so is delaying her like this.  He casts about for any way to get-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jake.  I'm sorry bud.  It's gotta be you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jake," he pleads.  "I was on your damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>team</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the last employee trust event!  I covered for you-- remember?  When your job was on the line because you hated the idea of a blindfold anywhere within five miles of Arkham?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least, that's what your Facebook post about it said…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's a chance.  A slim chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The big man's eyes narrow.  "I remember that.  The one I only came to because of the nonlethal weapons demo after."  He settles his hand on the butt of his stungun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes!" Kurt-- Noah-- crows inwardly and just lets his relief show up outside.  "Yes-- remember, they had the new forty volters, the ones they said would have less chance of going lethal, only you said--" </span>
  <em>
    <span>on your facebook page again--</span>
  </em>
  <span> "that even the Penguin might be able to shrug that off, let alone one of the real crazies!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jake's hand wraps around the stun gun's grip.  He looks briefly at Harley, whose predatory eyes don't move from "Kurt," but the way she nods her head and licks her lips makes him hope desperately she's considering Jake's rebellion more arousing than whatever the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> she wants from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He's going to do it!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's unwise to count your chickens before they hatch.  Tempting fate.  But Jake does, in fact, pop the snap off the holster, and draws the phaser-resembling weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And aims it right at Noah's chest.  "Everyone else but me who went to the demo after the Trust bullshit is dead except for one woman.  She turned out to be Livewire.  You don't look like her, but I'm thinking you look a lot like a supervillain right now, 'Kurt.'"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah Kuttler is not a Hunter.  He thinks very fast, and can multi-task excellently.  Provided he has the tools laid out, he can process no less than four distinct tasks at once.  More, he can multi-</span>
  <em>
    <span>thread</span>
  </em>
  <span> very well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So from the moment he saw Quinn's smile grow wide, when Jake said, "Everyone else," he was already assuming he'd fucked up.  By the time the word "demo" was said, he'd considered his options, checked the room, and discarded most of them.  Not separate tasks being accomplished separately, but factoring all of them together and getting faster results.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I try to convince him otherwise, he'll fixate on the liar part.  Time to dance you stupid son of a bitch,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he rages at himself.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why the </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck</span>
  <em>
    <span> did you ever stick your neck out, even for Fourth World tech?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jake nods towards the door.  "I'll walk you out," he says gruffly.  "I don't like it.  But you shouldn't have been here… and better a supervillain than my friends."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's smile grows wider and wider.  Her left hand is down at her muff.  "Concealing" it with her palm-- but very clearly stroking two fingers in and out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The loving horror of her face is even brighter red; the sensuality of it seems to moisten the monitor itself.  Just the action of her right hand over the puffy nipple, grasping at it and squeezing hard, tugging back and forth, would be hypnotic enough.  Looking at her?  Knowing that she's "jilling" off?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That's why she hasn't rushed us, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Noah realizes as he backs away from Jake-- not far, just enough to emphasize patheticness.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>This is getting her off.  And whatever else drives them… Fuck.  She's feeding.  Like a psychic vampire.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe exactly like.  Can I use that?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  All he knows is that he can't directly contradict-- it's suicide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look, Jake," Noah says, swallowing heavily.  "Yeah-- I want to live.  And yeah-- I know all of you do.  But-- this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harleen Quinzel.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley Quinn.  You </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> think you can trust her?  Sure-- I'll walk out with you, but do you really think you're going to be walking any further?  Just because </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> says so?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, that makes Quinn stop masturbating immediately.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is this the key to Jake?  She was a psychiatrist-- maybe her Hunter whatevers let her understand personality levers.  Is that why she's so angry?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Quinn </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> angry now.  Not just angry enough to stop jilling it.  She definitely doesn't look like a horny picture of fun-- manic dream pixie </span>
  <em>
    <span>dragon</span>
  </em>
  <span> girl-- whom you can just appease with a not-so-virgin sacrifice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks like she's ready to hurt </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just for existing when Noah spotted the same levers she did.  Or whatever.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that's </span>
  </em>
  <span>your</span>
  <em>
    <span> mistake, Dr. Quinzel.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You're reminding them you're a psycho bitch, you've always </span>
  </em>
  <span>been</span>
  <em>
    <span> a psycho bitch waiting for the Joker to bring it out, and you'll always </span>
  </em>
  <span>be</span>
  <em>
    <span> a psycho bitch ready to gut them.  You're showing them cooperation has no meaning!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods at the monitor.  "Some of you used to work with </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, alright.  How many of you trusted her when she was asking for favors?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah turns back, looking from face to face-- the employees with the longest lead times here.  "When she needed her parking taken care of, or spilled something or needed something to take notes.  Little things.  Did they add up?  At what point did she convince you to start giving her access to records Arkham didn't want her looking at?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back at Jake-- who is, after all, the seniormost employee.  He was here before the Batman started dressing up like a flying rodent and swatting people around who were just trying to get ahead.  "When did she convince you it was okay?" he asks.  "Okay to give her time with the monitor off in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> cell?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Angry murmurs begin, back and forth.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps if Jake won't do it, the others will, and to hell with you, Jake.  Maybe you'll need to zap your friends, huh?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The half-dulcet, half-</span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> tones of Harley Quinn come back.  "Oh guyyyyss," she sings out.  "Ya did notice that I can already hear ya, right?  And I already know mosta ya, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> know everyone by scent-- speaking of, Parker?  More showers.  Trust me on this."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The Calculator tries to think of something, anything, some last card to pull.  He should have thousands of options.  All he can think of is-- the tablet.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone's watching her… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Chaos.  I hate this plan.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Because there is one more thing he can think of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Kneeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The murmurs cease, dead.  "Yeah, you heard me.  But, hey-- yer thinking, 'Well, if she can just run up, grab us, an' move on, then why don't she just grab Noah there while he's playin' with the building security systems?"</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His fingers keep tapping for a few moments after he hears it.  He's simply so desperate he can't afford to believe he's been spotted.  He just keeps going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, it's 'cause I actually like a coupla ya.  Jake, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> nice ta me a few times before an' after.  I got history with some of ya.  I don't want to make ya all go splat, splat, splat.  But I can, and I ain't </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> sentimental I'll put up with you bein' pricks."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears rolling down his cheeks, the Calculator connects to his sabotage care package.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, yeah, he's still tryin' to get-- what, looks like sleepygas an' some plastique?-- wow, that's </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>, fer someone talkin' about stickin' together.  Anyhoo, limited time offer an' all that; really limited if Noah gets--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last things Noah Kuttler hears are an intense </span>
  <em>
    <span>BZZT</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Quinn saying, "Thanks, Jake."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing he remembers is thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Those really do hurt like hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><h2>
  <span>---</span>
</h2><p>
  <span>The first thing Noah Kuttler wakes up to is </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Cold all over; just a different cold behind?  No, beneath.  Beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Below is the cold, not-quite-hard chill of a smooth, sterile vinyl flooring.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>BRE rating for the latest cleanr--</span>
  </em>
  <span>  His head aches; irrelevant thoughts spin on, from the latest planned expansion for chip manufacturing to the blackmail he's working on for Luthor-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who </span>
  </em>
  <span>is</span>
  <em>
    <span> his latest mistress, anyway?  All I know is tall and tough…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It helps distract from quite how global the chill feels.  How it's seeping in where clothes should cover.  But the very idea that it helps him not think about the chill below focuses on the chill above.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the kind of coldness that bites at your face and hands and the other usual spots.  Not the chill that makes you dig deeper into your jacket and wish you'd worn a long sleeve shirt, too.  It's honestly only a coolness-- it's just that it's a coolness that soaks in everywhere, including where it's unfamiliar for most of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind is so fogged that the information slips in only bits at a time, but it hits him-- like an engine block dropped on his gut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The realization makes Noah shudder more than the temperatures themselves.  Nakedness.  His entire body is exposed; he's lying on his bare ass, back barely touching the floor at all from how tense his widespread arms have his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a part of him that's hot, though; his cock is so achingly stiff and throbbing that it feels self-heating.  Like it's in a different clime than his balls, which are so cold it feels like they're trying to shove their way into his pelvis.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no.  Oh no.  Oh n--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know yer awake, Kuttler."  The voice is every bit as harshly-accented as it was in her anger, yet still so sweet his balls start to feel warm and full again.  "Open yer eyes."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No way, that's a stupid i--</span>
  </em>
  <span> Noah opens his eyes even while he thinks to disobey.  The power of her voice bypasses the mind that might think to evade her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No.  It doesn't bypass his mind.  She penetrates his mind, smashing off bits like Batman through a window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fact that Quinn half-stepped onto his package helps.  She's enormous, more than half a meter taller than he, and his eyes go wide from the sudden pressure.  If she stepped onto it completely, he's not sure he'd </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> a groin anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, he shudders and gasps, a softly whined, "Nngh!"  Pleasure as much as pain makes tears drip down his cheeks, his senses swamping the once-powerful mind behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There we go," the giantess laughs, sending her titanic tits jiggling around.  She laughs like a lasso, the rippling waves of strength and sinuousness magnified in his frantic mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah's entire world abruptly and completely focuses.  Calculations, plans, truths, deceptions, goals, fears-- for a moment, they're all gone except for three things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How beautiful Harley Quinn is.  How terrifyingly strong she has become.  And just how fucking good it feels to have his dick beneath her foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To have his life beneath her.  "Yes!" he whispers, and his cock throbs against her foot as she laughs at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her foot alone is long enough such that with her heel pinning his testicle sack to the ground in a distinctly painful pinch, his cumslit is drooling precum onto it more than a bit short of the ball of her foot.  It's warm and firm and somehow seems to be curling around the entirety both sideways and lengthwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not far.  Just a bit extra around the sides.  Far enough that--  "Ahhh!" Noah cries out, arching his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't tell how far around his cock it is for a few moments.  The pleasure erodes his ability to process information too much.  For a moment, it feels like she's stepped </span>
  <em>
    <span>through</span>
  </em>
  <span> his dick, somehow leaving only pleasure behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, Quinn's just leaning the foot against and across his cock.  The press of flesh goes far enough around such that when the tiny muscles and tendons-- not so tiny on her</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of course-- began to somehow squeeze and rub precisely everywhere that her foot touched…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like every component fiber was a tongue.  Like tongues of ten, twenty, thirty-- fifty or more-- different women were slowly, languidly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>expertly</span>
  </em>
  <span> licking along the entire length from the base to pre-oozing tip.  And yet, not his balls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those are exposed to pain and heat alone.  Noah shudders and mewls, squirming around beneath her.  In moments, his chubby stomach tenses as best it can and his hips roll up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smugness of Harley Quinn's smile grows wider and wider even as his lube spills back over his dick and smears over the pale foot.  His arms slam back behind him and his head too, the crack of his skull sudden and shooting pain that somehow skims beneath the incandescent pleasure of her footjob.  The hot, burning sensation that trickles from his skull's point of impact seems even more distant and somehow distinct from his mind than her heel grinding his nuts back against his body and the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And far more than from his cock.  Far, far, further, and far, far more separate.  In fact…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>don't they say we think with our dicks?</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Calculator thinks, weeping.  Weeping precum, or so it feels.  He can still see through his eyes, but that sight and those tears seem so far away from the new, true center of him.  Words become impossible; concrete thoughts, nearly so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The darkness behind his eyes has become as relevant to the seat of his consciousness as the darkness behind one of his thighs.  Sensory perception is inputted there, yes.  Painful, in the case of his bleeding head wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But everything, every thought, every sensation seems to leak into and from the nerve-laden head of his dick.  The precum that splurts and floods from within feels like his tears, of pain and joy alike.  The pain-- every time his shaft throbs, blood pumps all around.  His heart feels secondary to his cock as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is the throbbing of his shaft, not the beating of his heart, that centers him.  That sends his lungs pumping and his throat screaming wordlessly.  That provides the timing for the seeping blood from the back of his head.  For the burning agony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Agony that would be as unimportant as the slow crush of his balls except for one thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes Harley Quinn smile.  It makes the lines of stress and demonic desire around her face ebb into mere hellish possessiveness.  His pain doesn't lessen with her smile; it just feels less and less important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like it's falling away-- into her smile.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She's eating my mind!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The panic flares… and extinguishes in the inferno of her footjob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More and more of Noah's captured cock feels like it's being pleasured all at once.  Like even where her warm, warm foot isn't touching, he's being squeezed and squeezed anyway.  Rhythmic motions, tightening first around the head, then down the shaft, but slowly releasing above along the way, until by the time the bottom half of his cock is being gripped, the top half is all but released, like her foot is going flat again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footjob takes him away and holds him in place.  Far above the center of his thoughts-- so far as they can still be called thoughts-- he drools, his mouth stuck open.  His eyes are wide, but his vision so vague the room looks like a blur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley Quinn does not.  From the brawny majesty of her legs to the aching sweetness of her pussy, he is entranced.  The shredded power of her stomach, the vast bounce of her breasts, and the treetrunk thick power of her arms seems vaguer, but still more present to his consciousness than the room itself, let alone his pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has devoured his mind, it seems-- but only the parts she wanted.  Slurped down his ability to process information, swallowed up his senses.  Only a Harley-sized chunk remains in his slowly-dissolving field of view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face; her smile, her big, fierce smile and the burning intensity of her eyes-- that's sharp and crisp as the impossible pleasure her firmly stroking foot is forcing into his now completely pre-coated prick.  Front and back and sides, all of it covered in the slickness and all of it commanded by her foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's pigtails are a bit out of focus, the red and blue tips almost invisible.  She says something, it's clear and crisp, but he doesn't seem to remember what words mean.  His body does; he's nodding rapidly, but… none of it passes into the foreground of his thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But sight and sound matter so much less than feel.  Squeeze-ripple-squeeze; perhaps not tongues, perhaps the moistness is his precum, flowing away, staining his body and collecting on the vinyl; but if it's not tongues, then his disbelieving mind can't believe it's a foot.  It feels like the fingers of an expert masturbator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah's had the best prostitutes money can buy, and he's done a lot with them.  But he can't recall their bodies, and nothing they ever did with any body part now feels as enticing as just the idea of her fist ably tightening and releasing over his cock.  Which is what his mind insists has to be happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the foot he can feel and just barely sort of see at the edge of his peripheral vision.  No matter where her actual fists seem to be.  It's all so wrong, and yet, the ecstatic trance it induces leaves him terrified that there is no other rightness that can exist other than the power of her smile and her foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator feels like he's the one draining away onto the floor, not his precum and blood.  And saliva, now, the drool completely down both sides of his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she makes him cum so hard he's not even sure he survives.  All of him, splurting away into an endless ocean of pleasure.  His conscious thought goes out with the first wad of cum, splattering high and leaving him drooling and incoherent even in his own head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next thin splurts take-- not his ability to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> pain-- but his pain's importance to himself.  His identity seems to follow, not that he has the brainpower to contemplate it.  Memory, intuition, instinct… Noah Kuttler feels like he's literally cumming his brains out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except he doesn't know what his name is; what </span>
  <em>
    <span>a</span>
  </em>
  <span> name is, what brains are…  Or why he should care.  Spasming, his whole body-- not just the parts he can feel-- shakes and writhes on the floor like he'd been tasted again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then things go dark.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Noah Kuttler has just experienced the first of many humiliating orgasms.  Harley Quinn, like most Hunters, is extraordinarily good at using pleasure as a humiliator.  It's more fun for her that way, and once a given slave is completely fitted for his new role, the pleasure is an even nastier goad than the pain (that she'll also add for fun).</p><p>The pain, after all, is a deterrent, a negative.  The pleasure?  The way his balls will fill and his shaft grow hard at the thought of obedience-- or punishment, should he fail?</p><p>That's an addiction.  And since she wants a vizier out of the Calculator, she's more than happy to see him addicted.  She's not exactly worried about betrayal, after all.  So it's time for him to wake.</p><p>He hopes to salvage his mind from her, since she wants it.</p><p>He can't.</p><p>He hopes to salvage his creativity from her, since she wants that, too.</p><p>He can't.</p><p>Harley is going to swallow every last little bit of him up inside her, leaving only the barest remnants, tools from which to regrow him.  Or at least, that was the plan.  Plans don't always go as, well, planned.</p><p>Even for Hunters.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Harley Quinn is a Hunter now.  Huge, broadly built and endlessly strong, she is a beautiful monster indeed.  She hasn't bothered with clothes yet; why would she?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Other than th'fact that it blankifies everyone's brains, I guess.  I'll think about clothes later.  For now… fun!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley achieved her apotheosis in Arkham Asylum, the same place she began her downward spiral into becoming the Joker's moll.  Where she made herself his slave.  Even the vats of Ace Chemicals carry less pain and wrath for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's just where he branded her, after all.  She'd fitted herself for the collar already.  When he brought her there, the leash was already in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A brand that will-- to an extent-- remain forever.  Her skin was never tan, not a PhD student's, but it had at least color and life to it.  Even becoming a Hunter has not changed this.  Over her bulging muscles lies skin so white it might as well be paint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, as tight as it fits to her muscles and her firm spheres, painted on might well be the best metaphor for the skin itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brand is Harley's now, though, pale skin and unbound mind.  She always did more with it than the Joker and his constant obsessions, his anchors to his own pain and destruction.  Now, he's dead at her hands--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, at her hands, arms, thighs, and breasts… but, you know, close enough--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And soon, the Joker will be forgotten.  No longer a Clown Prince of anything, if she wants the position of fear and chaos it'll be hers for the taking.  Just like she chose her red and blue and it has become a part of her, now she has taken everything he might have been for her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than a little bit of it, she chooses to discard.  The rest requires thought.  Luckily, she's just become an unparalleled multitasker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One thing Harley intends to leave behind is Arkham and Gotham entirely.  She's not entirely unafraid of the Bat.  Just a man, and from her point of view, no stronger or faster or tougher than the Joker or even his butler.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still can't believe I missed the fact it was Wayne, of all hotties!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But… that's never stopped him before.  It's easy to believe the gulf is unimaginable.  But that has never stopped him, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So while the Bat isn't a physical terror, he troubles Harley.  Not to mention that at least two of his proteges have also joined the Hunter sorority.  Including one who was arguably the best martial artist of the old world, and if it wasn't Cassandra Cain, it was her mother-- Lady Shiva.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention both Cassandra and Helena Bertinelli were, if only briefly, her friends.  She has no desire to become the Two-Face to either's Bat.  It is time to </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a home for her to go to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley will leave with more than just pale skin, an incredible rack, and muscles so big and hyper-developed that a clench of her fist can set off more tectonic force in her arm than the entire San Andreas fault going at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's winnowing Arkham.  Few enough of its residents treated her with anything like respect.  Of course, she's taking Killer Croc with her, and Waylon once tried to eat her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, a number of the more tragic monsters have been… engaged… for her retinue.  Under her protection, the Croc has stashed their unconscious bodies deep within the baffling earthen tunnels.  But she wants more than just pets-- once-friends far too weak and insignificant to be peers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>working</span>
  </em>
  <span> bitches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon's one; the first stud for her stable and brutal fist to execute her will.  If her Pammie was here…  </span>
  <em>
    <span>But she ain't.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The others have their talents and abilities, but mostly, she'll be sheltering them-- to and from the world.  And while Waylon has his cleverness, now that his croc side can be suppressed, he's mostly only smart enough to execute her plans.  A lieutenant and fucktoy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley wants a vizier.  It's not like she cares about daggers in the back.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Though I ain't gonna tolerate persistent lip; but I suspect I got better ways of enforcin' loyalty than any king or sultan.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pain far beyond the worst dungeon's torturers, of course.  But she offers-- inflicts-- far more than pain.  Her presence demands reverence; her very voice, obedience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile, worship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But those are demands.  She has pleasure to use as bribe and whip both.  And it's easier </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> use it as both than pain on someone as weak and feeble as Noah Kuttler.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator's presence in Arkham was a genuine surprise.  It left behind trails and traces, absences and irregularities that lead her right to the bunker they'd sunken low into the Changed Earth-- but also dug basements and facilities too close.  A few inches of tight-packed dirt can thwart her; several feet of reinforced concrete are as easy to demolish as paper or people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley hasn't said it, but part of her does appreciate how well Kuttler manipulated the Arkhamites.  Of course, as she personally used to exemplify, the staff of Arkham Asylum seemed to take on a weakness to the magnetism of supervillains with their security badges.  But it was done well nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  As much as she appreciates artistry done right, she also finds it irksome.  Or rather, her body does.  She bares her teeth at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the Joker shoved her into the vat at Ace Chemicals she'd found a strange disjunct between what she wanted, what she believed she should do, and what her body's signals told her to accomplish.  The vast majority of the second had no influence at all; the only "shoulds" came with her both into and out of the vat were those that had to do with love and friendship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very little else endured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks down over Kuttler's once-more unconscious frame.  The bleeding has stopped, as has his sad little orgasm.  An angry, Hungry part of her roars at her to smear his unacceptable thin wad over his own face, by kicking him off the wall with her heel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She ignores it; the Hungers exist to her only as facts, truths of her body.  They compel her only a very little indeed, and she's not going to put him into a coma for her own offended dignity.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>'Specially not since I'm the one who milked it out of him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her giant leg, more heavily muscled than his body's ever been and broader than his waist by far, moves anyway.  Undulating swells of strength, surrounded by cable-sized longer muscles pump and contract, the unholy glee returning to her face.  "Ooh, yeah, baby… You doin' </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> already!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In that he's in stunned unconsciousness as she smears his spent orgasmic fluids all over his balls.  As she does so, her mouth parts slightly, prolonging the first "Ooh," and returning to it every time the force of her weight partially shoved against his testicles makes him cry out in his stupor.  Those little cries and the feel of wiping his essence away like the trash it is get Harley's motor running heavily.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An' feed my Sadism-hole pretty good, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her purr is lost on the insensate Calculator, but her pussy reassures her that </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> appreciates her, aroused femmejuices rolling over the stark definition of her sensitive inner thighs.  The clench and more importantly </span>
  <em>
    <span>release</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her sex are far better rewards than anything the Calculator could ever manage, making her eyes flutter lightly and her fingers bunch into fists along with the spasming squeeze of her sex.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A nice start.  Pleasure really is like pain when it's done right.  Sensory input that overrides other sources and leaves you helpless.  That may be the best way to deal with this geek.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If her new body will permit it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite enjoying using his balls like a towel, she still steps on his spindly little thigh on the way towards his head.  She can hardly believe it's actually a thigh; it's not even as broad as her knee joint!  The crunch, the swift purpling beneath her still slightly-sticky feet, and the scream as he starts to find his way back to reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heh," she laughs, then licks her lips again.  "Rise and whine, sucker."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To being ruled by Harley.  Despite the force of the step, she really does think pleasure-- overall-- will be the best way to turn him.  She can control her body with pinpoint precision, as she demonstrated with her foot-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>And boy, is that fun!--</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he's so fuckin' fragile…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator, small as he is, makes for barely a stride once she's used his puny quads as a stepping stone.  One quick swing of swaggering, shimmying hips, her ass wiggling with pleasure as she walks.  She licks her lips as she stands over his head, tasting the air while she considers him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So weak.  So thin and small and weak.  He couldn't withstand the force of her ears wiggling if she didn't restrain herself, let alone a single poke.  So very weak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so fucking squirmy.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He was fightin' in there pretty good.  Arguin' back against </span>
  </em>
  <span>me!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator is a middle-aged human male.  Barely taller than average, just like his dick.  He's had hand to hand combat training, and keeps up with his exercise; benefits of being the boss-- setting his own hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In Harley's sensorium, the slight flab around the edges of his stomach, thighs, and upper arms are measured perfectly.  She knows every contour of him precisely; she even knows what sort of clothes, makeup, and body-language training could make him seem sort of cute in a cuddly way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She softly groans, "Unf..  So fuckin' weak…"  Closing her eyes for all the good it does, she lets heat burn through her cheeks and her ass tense up with anticipation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In her mind, the fat and the sheer </span>
  <em>
    <span>smallness</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Noah Kuttler is magnified a thousandfold.  He might as well have sat on his ass and chowed down for the last forty-odd years.  In a word, he is inadequate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same as the vast majority of the human herd and-- as near as she can tell-- the fuck-near totality of his gender of any species.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Waylon's okay, as punching-bag/breathing dildos go.  Aquaman's a hottie.  Wayne was-- or is-- pretty.  And I have to admit, I understand why the big girls were going after Superman.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Other than that, she hasn't seen a single male that is anything but inadequate.  They're all so flawed.  Of course, compared to Harley, what isn't inadequate but her fellow Hunters?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perfectly shaped shoulders, with just the right sweep of traps to the neck and just the right bulge of delts to make her rounded, rough shoulders a rugged balance to her burly new frame.  Broad upper arms that would make mature oaks look skinny, down to forearms that look like she's wearing combat gauntlets from their size alone… Except that the intricate definition and sculpted development could be nothing else than organic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's chest, of course, is a thing of prodigies, and not just gorgeous breasts that would make porn stars green with envy and porn directors give up their profession as irrelevant compared to even the silhouettes of her fat, crinkly nipples or a hint of her broad, pink areolae.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above the base of her breasts, the tops of her pectorals show, huge prominences with tight grooves around the edges, etching outlines of power and showing every breath and movement with fresh demonstrations of mass.  It's the same all over.  If anything, the deadly girth and heft of her legs is even more fantastically muscled and certainly far more curved than her arms.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those sinuous limbs, topped by broad hips with luscious padding that makes even a roundhouse kick look like a sexual act--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, for a Hunter, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a sexual act--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They look like they were born to be licked and kissed and worshipped by all.  Not just the muscle fetishists and the leg enthusiasts.  Seen swaggering from the front or the sides, lips will moisten with need to get to their property duty.  Seen from behind, with an ass that manages to meld firmness and jiggliness with breadth and plumpness beyond the fever dreams of rap video casting directors-- well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jake saw her walking away, he was hers anyway.  Just knelt until she invited him into her embrace.  To her cleavage.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The suffocation only gave 'im a headache.  He's a good man, and he'll make a good pet.  An' of course, the little shit I just gave a footjob to was gonna knock 'im out and then set off the plastique his little drone brought through the ventilation.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley looks down at the Calculator again.  The pain of having his thigh bruised with her footprint has brought him to that borderland between wakefulness and slumber.  Staring at her murderous legs and the gorgeous cleft between them has kept him there.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He was turning them against me until I took the reins back.  Organizing them.  Using their natures-- crudely-- and the social nature of humanity to hide himself.  To turn several old friends and colleagues into human shields.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And he did it all within seconds of being exposed-- by me!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "Mm," she pants, rising to a growl.  "Fuckin' squirmy little worm."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger flares in Harley, and tries to force her to stomp down on his head, right over those weakly flicking green eyes.  They've gone vague and back and back to vague again so easily.  Such a fragile little shell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over a mind that had his fellow humans daring to stand against Harley.  Against her demands.  Against the threat of her muscle.  Disobedience to her beauty, and contempt for the pain and death she could unleash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not in himself; he hasn't the bravery.  But he put it in them.  An offense.  "Feh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brawny girth of her thigh moves; the enormous, giantess' fist of her calf muscle clenches.  She stamps her bare heel down.  The impact slams all the way down-- all the way through powdered vinyl and leaving a concrete crater.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>About fifty centimeters away from his head.  "Wakey-wakey, Noah," she growls.  "I'm not waitin' on you more."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Realization crackles into the man's head.  Calculation indeed.  Risks, options, chances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nil.  And hence, lead only to one conclusion; she sees it in his still endorphin-fogged eyes of green.  Stretched along the floor to his full five foot eleven-- a hundred and eighty centimeters of nothing special.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, what I'm lookin' for is in th' thinking brain head, not the one that's already obedient t'me.  Trickier.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And obedient the Calculator's paltry little cock is, stiff and proud, with his shaggy balls already pumping to fill the seminal vesicles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart is less obedient to Harley, his lungs still less, as they pound with increasing agitation.  He sucks in great heaping gasps of air, as though her mere presence choked him, his nipples hardening with each passing second.  The air around him is filled with her arousal, and the sweet tang of it a subtler invasion than her gloriously bare form but laying down her leashes nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of them are nude, but their nudity is no more equal than anything else between them.  Their musculature is a study in contrasts; her feminine frame filled with power and mass, intimidating breadth and depth with bulges that seem to dwarf any four of him.  So, too, is their nakedness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Naked and exposed, Noah's body's weakness-- both in the limits of his less-than-stellar physique and the rigid declaration of southern regions for the new queen-- sends a flush of shame and fear from his forehead down to his chest.  He manages to whimper out "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" before words become too much trouble for the superhuman genius once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wave stops just short of his tiny little nipples on flat little pecs, where the paroxysms of fear meet the corrupting shudders of desire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His nudity is a display-- a seemingly unfortunate catch.  But she Hunted him for his mind, anyway.  And his body is her tool to bring that mind to heel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunter's</span>
  </em>
  <span> bared body…  Harley licks her lips again, and kisses the air.  "Look at me, Noah," she purrs, and his hazy eyes wander over her form once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Naked and powerful, Harley's bodily strength is manifold; clothes would be an armor to protect </span>
  <em>
    <span>Noah</span>
  </em>
  <span> and other humans, male and female alike entranced and terrified.  Every ounce of her body from below the chin is a detailed map of interlocking power, prominences swollen with just the right amount of harsh hardness and chiseled, curvaceous shaping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please!" he whispers.  "You're swallowing up my mind-- I'll be no use to you!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley laughs at him again.  "Who says what use I get outta ya, Noah?"  She licks her lips nice and slow, stroking her broad hands over her vastly muscular body, starting from her hips' obscenely soft curves, but moving quickly to her stomach's rigid beauty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weapon that this Hunter is, the predator supreme, shocks the mind of onlookers more harshly when it is "exposed" in all its glory.  When one can see that there is nothing but obscene strength that makes her up, whether muscular strength or the overabundance of chest, ass, and hips.  Just like Noah's flabby body would expose him to ridicule if he tried to run his corporate and underworld empire thus, hers commands him to obedience on a starkly primal level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can do is sob, as his dick gets harder and harder, constantly oozing precum down along itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It flows from more than the functionally unlimited power of Harley's brawn and beauty.  The latter is empowered both by the brawn and seemingly endless, fat curves of her breasts, the perfectly shaped thickness of her hips with their rounded lushness.  Her nakedness is more than a display.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brings both hands up to her fat, throbbing nipples, flicking two fingers from each against the crinkled nubs from below.  "Mmm.  Yeah.  Ya like this, don'tcha?" she laughs, rubbing the sensitive flesh and cackling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face's radiance seems to be enhanced by being atop such a statuesque form, her high cheekbones and sharp jaw echoing the deep cleft where her colossal breasts anchor on enormous pectorals.  The outer bulges of her upper arms balance, squeezing back against her side without removing rotational capacity, dramatic in agility as much as they are in vigor and mass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Noah Kuttler screams.  Weeps.  'Like' is both too weak and too strong a word.  He loves her body, worships her pleasure… and despairs before her utterly.  "Please…  Ah… mmm… </span>
  <em>
    <span>please...</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it still does not process at the same level as the Hunter who has claimed him, his mind is still a prodigy of metahuman enhancement.  Data processing, recollection, pattern recognition, organization, information management-- there's a reason why a skinny geek with no family connections rose to be a power player by the time he was thirty, and held onto his position for more than a decade after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She flashes a toothy grin at him, canines prominent.  Tooling her toe around atop him, she purrs.  "Please </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Noah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was the world of men and women, of heroes and villains.  Now, this is the world of Hunters, and Noah knows it, deep in the most primitive regions of his accelerated brain.  The tremble runs through him alongside the inescapable conclusion of his comparative and absolute position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nngh…  Please!" he gasps, but she is not-- pleased that is.  She can see it in the furtiveness of his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Didn't I say it?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley thinks contemptuously as he tries to work the angles.  "I have a family-- a daughter, I'm all she has left!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Squirmy.  Little.  Worm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her toe taps the floor, and silences the Calculator with the thunder that accompanies the rift in the floor, travelling all the way to just below his ear.  His back arches again, his elbows and heels digging into the floor.  It makes his dick wave wildly, splattering his groin and the ground with his once-more copious precum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let me make one thing clear, Kuttler," Harley says coldly, the Brooklyn so far removed from her voice that it's just a harshening around the edges.  "If you survive, if she lives-- I'll do </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> best to protect her.  I take care of what's mine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But.  If you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> try to use your daughter as a tool to manipulate me again, you'll just be dead.  Human shield, human lever, human </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> but </span>
  <em>
    <span>your daughter</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you'll find your labors at an end."  Her blue eyes are blue-hot in their fiery rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smirk forces its way onto her face, though she can't help but twist some wryness into her lips.  "Unless you </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> to use her as a suicide device, I suppose," she adds, tilting her head down at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wryness turns to hellish anticipation.  "Then, well.  Ya get ta learn what kinda </span>
  <em>
    <span>creativity</span>
  </em>
  <span> I can produce when given incentive."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah--!"  Noah quavers to a stop, fingers clenching and waving while his jaw drops at her.  The calculations run again, but keep looping endlessly against the vicious anger that makes her arms bulge and her abs tighten.  Each time she takes a breath, her pumped pecs seem to grow a bit more with the anger she sucks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No-- they </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> grow as Harley flexes into hyperexpansion.  "I can get </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> fuckin' creative now, Noah," she growls as she squeezes her body against itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands curl inwards towards her hips, fists pumping as she orients her knuckles towards her midsection.  Her pecs almost pop forward, rapidly tightening with all their preternatural mass.  The ripple flows out from her chest and forearms; her tits bouncing forwards with every regimented breath, their broad, brawny bases bulging out dangerously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"Keep it in mind."  Then she relaxes, though she feels like when she lets her breath out, and the hyperexpansion ceases, a demanding kind of possessiveness takes its place.  She doesn't bother to hide the sexual greed that ripples across her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Among other things, it confuses the fuck out of Noah.  He's self-honest enough to realize that his primary attraction to anyone is from intangibles.  Wealth, power, influence.  What he can do and what he can use-- not what he looks like, let alone who he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, but…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  But Harley views almost all men the same way now.  Helpless toys and victims; </span>
  <em>
    <span>hapless</span>
  </em>
  <span> toys and victims, barely worth a few hours of raping and barely able to survive a few seconds' worth of the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In part, because Noah is wrong about how little physically he thinks he has to offer.  An only above-average cock is still that-- slightly above average.  For tighter women, like his long-dead wife, he wasn't uncomfortable or painful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Similarly, on the few occasions the criminal mastermind let his guard down, when the hard edges were gone, his height and even his stomach did make him into a fairly decent cuddler.  His wife saw that in him all the time.  They didn't get two children by accident, nor were they the children of necessity or prophylactic mischance.  There are women who could love Noah Kuttler, did he spend the time and energy to force himself out of his societally-imposed self-image.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gorgeous, statuesque mega-amazon a foot and a half and change taller than him, who could break him over her </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrist</span>
  </em>
  <span>, let alone her knee, could still be one of them.  But for reasons of her own.  Besides-- while she sees the cuddly cuteness that his wife did, it isn't sufficient reason to meet her Hunter-high impossible standards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But instead… the Calculator's lowliness arouses her.  His weakness and softness makes her wet.  She is chewing on her lower lip, pigtails bouncing lightly as she cocks her head this way and that.  Her pupils widen, though they remain fixed on his green eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Harley's sensorium sweeps over him, memorizing him.  The flab at his middle, the weaknesses in his joints-- even the ongoing damage in his back makes her nipples grow and grow, throbbing wildly.  Yes, the Calculator can in fact make Harley Quinn wet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For his pain.  To make him feel every last gram of his puniness, to inflict mind-blanking pleasure on him tied to the crush of her arms and the swat of her hands.  She yearns to walk on him, just to give him another footjob while planting her full weight on his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, right,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley snorts at herself.  It's a challenge-- how much pleasure and pain to apply to the tasty little victim so she gets an intellect and organizer out of him on the other end, whilst still coaxing his obedience.  The very fragility that makes her nostrils flare and clit throb at the thought of breaking every finger on both hands makes her realize it might take </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span> or even months to force him into instinctive compliance.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An' there we go, round and round.  He's weak, so I want to break 'im.  But he's got something I want, so my brain says, 'Nope, gotta be careful.'  But that frustrates me, so back to breakin'... which gets me wet, which makes me think about how useless he is…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's unusual mind took the transition to Hunter without losing its freedom from constraints.  So she feels that whirlpool of emotions… and discards it.  "Meh," she grunts, and ignores how he gapes and searches her face with his eyes, trying to figure out his next angle there..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she snaps herself down a crouch by Noah's head, just leaning on her tippy-toes to either side of his barely-healed skull.  Her knees are up, her hamstrings and her calves grinding together like boulders in an avalanche.  And her thighs are parted wide, her delectably fat ass clenched and her hips shifted so her pussy begins to drip right on his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Splash.  Her thick musk slaps his face.  It's just gravity, but the splatter sends further little drips everywhere while his nose involuntarily invites her invading sensuality to ravish his lungs again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyebrows rise and the corners of her lips pull back into another Hungry smile.  "Heya, Noah," she actually chirps, the deepness of her chest suppressed in her enthusiasm.  He sobs in terror and she nods again, chuckling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, get it all out, baby," Harley purrs, her powerful arms resting with her elbows to the rough bulges of her quads, running like long ridges with rivers of subtler strength flowing between them.  Her fingers stroke along his jaw and cheek, not even painting him with her pussyjuice directly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator freezes the moment that she touches him, and she shakes her head sternly.  His whole body flinches as another droplet of sexual fluids splatters onto him, from a slightly different angle to the first.  "I said get it all out," she groans, his helplessness making her sex gush more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though her cunny's clenching is rhythmic beneath her ripped abs, the excess lubrication of her horniness is not.  Irregular droplets fall, making it impossible for him </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to flinch and spasm again as she pets his face.  "I want yer entire attention fer this, Noah, so get the babbling and sobbing out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's dark red tongue swirls from one corner of her dark red lips to the others.  She brings a finger up to her lips and chews lightly on it.  "Believe me," she chirps again.  "When I wantcha cryin'... I'll just make ya."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As his tears do fall and wordless babble escapes his throat, she continues to caress and torment him.  Her fingers explore and massage his face like a lover's adoring touches; her pussy marks him with her musk and turns the rapidity of his mind against him.  His thoughts clash into each other, disturbed by the chaos of the muskfall, and the way her scent urges him to fuck whatever she wants, to abase himself however she desires-- to do anything to get more of her femmefluids over whatever parts of him she wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Harley can see the nerves scream at him to get it around his dick.  She ignores them like she ignores her own desire to bring his head up between her thighs and squeeze.  Gentleness and madness, easing and igniting, she waits until he's not just wordless but voiceless, silent in his struggle to get a mental hold on just how wondrously terrible his fate is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah-- you… uhn… agh!" he gurgles off into silence.  With the Calculator's mouth working like that, it seems so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> to leave it empty.  She giggles to herself, thrusting her forefinger in with a lewd, rutting motion that plants the tip of her finger at the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of a sudden he begins to gag and bite, spasming wildly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he can't possibly hurt her, so she just yawns, and pinches his left nipple.  That makes him bite down harder, so she twists it, saying, "Ya know how to get this t'stop, Calcs."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Noah a few moments; he's not experienced with suppressing his gag reflex, and doing it with a tittie twister lock is probably not helping even his metagenius in this instance.  But figure it out he does, his face sweaty and reddened from effort and humiliation both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley is ruthless with the Calculator, "massaging" the back of his throat with her fingertip.  A simple motion, occasionally amusing herself by flicking his uvula about, but it leaves him spasming and jerking around wildly on the floor.  The action forces weeping dry heaves from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she lets herself enjoy how helpless he is.  With each stroke of her finger and gasping, coughing paroxysm of his body, she coos out little oohs and mmms, chewing on her lower lip and letting her sex flood over his face.  It's only when he figures out how to suppress his gag reflexes-- and starts to suck like a horny little pig-- that she has any mercy at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's long, strong finger strokes back from the uvula and to his tongue, circling her finger on the flat of it.  "Open wi-i~ide!" she giggles.  "Or we start again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whimpering, the Calculator opens his jaw as far as it goes.  She takes her finger, still damp with his saliva, and brings it up to her pussy.  She leans forward onto his thin shoulders, letting him feel the weight of her musclebound thighs and powerful calves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Outta curiosity," she chuckles and strokes her finger around her arousal-fattened labia, "How much do ya wish this was your tongue?  Keep in mind I ain't gonna take kindly to lies."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He irks her again, but she soothes her savagery by stroking the finger closer and closer to her clit.  While she stares at him, her soaked lips seeping more femmejuices over his face, he thrashes a bit, whimpering and gasping in wordless terror.  Oh, sure, it gets her going even more, her wettened fingertip finding eager nerves, all the more ready for pleasure, thanks to his hapless panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grunts, her finger finally reaching her clit, and begins to close her knees again.  Her shins grind over his clavicles, and a scream fires up out of him.  She pants, circling her clit slowly at first, but the tighter her impervious calves squeeze against the sides of his skull, the faster her finger moves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I ain't gonna take kindly to </span>
  <em>
    <span>delay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, neither, Calcs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Answer the fucking question!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  She chews on the inside of her cheek and gives him a lidded-eye smile.  "Unless ya </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to give you a bit of a taste of what Mistah J got."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One more scream; earning his skull a few more kilopascals of pressure.  Not even tire air gauge levels yet, but it gets her point across.  Harley's glutes clench, her rippling butt muscles bulging and forcing her curvy globes to conform to the rounded strength beneath as she gyrates her hips in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The motion shakes him, trapped as he is in her calves.  Worse for him, it makes her pussy's leak of femmejuices splatter further.  Over his lips-- well, that's a gift.  Over his nose…  Dripping down his cheek… not so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah surprises her at last.  Surrounded by even more sensory overload, and his jaw barely able to move, he grunts, "Wish… it.. was… tongue… nothing else… I…"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not exactly the eloquence I'll expect from him usually, but I guess nearly popping pressin' might be a bit of an obstacle, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Harley gloats to herself.  Then she squirms her broad shoulders around gleefully, making her mega-melons dance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmf… Un… ah… Fuck… see… here's th' prob, Calculator.  I don't wanna deal with perpetual backstabbin' disease… but </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she gasps as a mini orgasm hits and she paints his face further, making him splutter and shake.  It takes her a bit to realize that the weak little jerks are his attempt to shake his head a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To get her pussy's musky lubricant fluids away from his eyes.  It enrages her Hunter Hungers, but Harley is still the mistress of herself.  She refuses to be ruled by her Hungers any more than she was by societal norms before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she actually loosens her grip, and takes a moment away from delighting her clit to wipe his eyes clean.  "There," she coos.  "Now stop squirmin' an' enjoy your facepaintin'.  Or are ya saying ya don't like smelling of me-- smelling me… feeling my pleasure over your face…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's something of a rhetorical question.  It doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>matter</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he likes it or not, he's going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>taught</span>
  </em>
  <span> to love it.  But she gives his body credit for raising a "hand" to answer like a good student of sex.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Raising a hand, jerking his hips up and pumping that adorable little dick of his about, samey-same.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks in the genius' calf-bracketed brain.  Understanding of the only tool he has to bring some mercy.  It doesn't reach his eyes, the semi-clever little searching, unable to see her face past her tits but clearly looking to read her anyway.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love your pussy!" the Calculator yelps out.  "I love it, I promise, H-- Mistress, mistress mistress mistress," he babbles.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, that's some improvement.  He didn't even have to be told.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It pleases her anyway, and pleases her again when she thrusts her middle and forefinger, far girthier than any human's dick, down his throat.  He instantly suppresses his gag reflexes and even swirls his tongue over the fingertips when they linger.  "Aww," Harley says.  "Such an enthusiastic little boy.  Glad I'm the one t'pop your </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> oral cherry."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes and whimpers over her fingers again, the suction stopping.  A frown from her is all it takes to get him hollowing his cheeks again, but she takes note of it. </span>
  <em>
    <span> Still tryin' t'worm away.  Yeah, this ain't gonna be fast.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As Harley pulls her fingers back and away from his lips, rubbing them over her clit together, she does reflect on one good thing.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least it'll be fun.  I got this feeling that the more he squirms, the more I juice.  An' who could say no to that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Noah certainly can't!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She starts to groan louder and louder.  Almost without thinking, she starts to flex her thighs, rolling her belly as she gasps and throws her head back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her thighs would be bad enough; massive quads building and building above the Calculator, blotting out the harsh fluorescent light and leaving him in shadow.  His hips thrust up, waving his ridiculous little shaft around and splattering precum over his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But only briefly, because then her toes start to curl.  Her eyes widen with the pleasure, her tongue flicking out to taste his weakness on the air.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Noah!  I could-- whoops."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's screaming again, for admittedly good reason.  When her toes curl and her quads are entering into hyperexpansion, it seems, her mace-mass calves don't want to be left out.  The vice grip grinds and grinds, and ground its way right against his skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I could crush him with a finger if I'm not careful,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley thinks, hastily opening her thighs wide and pumping out her bad girl muscles to make the winding line of strength swell out.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>With calves that are bigger'n one of his pecs?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought-- the </span>
  <em>
    <span>power</span>
  </em>
  <span> she holds over the life of one of the great power brokers of the criminal underworld is more than enough.  With two fingers hastily circling her clit, and the other hand reaching up to squeeze and tug roughly on the corresponding nipple, Harley brings herself to a screaming climax over the Calculator's head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>FUCK!  </span>
  </em>
  <span>You're a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bug</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Kuttler!" she snarls in between panting screams of pleasure.  "You're a bug and you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> bug now-- I could squish your 'super' brain with just a flex.  Just on my way to cumming!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The absurd pain from having his skull brought to the near edge of its pressure tolerances leaves Kuttler's eyes glassy and his jaw slack.  All he can do is whimper beneath her as Harley pushes herself up on her knees, the density of her incredibly potent muscles concentrating down along his shoulders.  Bruising the little bitch of a man just from crouching on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that's a tiny sweetness in an ocean of sugar.  She cums and cums over his face.  Not directly onto it.  Not letting him lick like the pussy-hungry pig he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just showering him with her femmecum.  It's a pretty good treat anyway, and within a second of her climaxes starting to really hit hard, he's trying to lick her fall of essence up like very fluid snowflakes.  He still gets it splattered all over his pasty face, and she giggles, watching the results.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few more tasty whimpers of pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then his back arches one more time, his cute little thing twitching and spitting its puny wad up so high that some of it even splatters his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aww," Harley pants.  "It's nice ta be appreciated."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Being subject to Harley Quinn's apocalyptic orgasm sent the Calculator right out of his head, but it's just a start to a long process.  Reshaping his pain-pleasure responses, that's easy.  Reshaping his loyalties and priorities on a fundamental level, that takes at least a few minutes; maybe an hour or two.</p><p>(Well, it really takes an Ivy)</p><p>Rapidly, he finds himself in a position that will become very familiar to many a man and no few women in the new world.  Lost in her muscles, lost in her curves, lost in the pure perfection of her fractally-etched body.  Here, his mind is a traitor, putting numbers around the infinite and then giggling on the acid trip from watching them shatter.</p><p>Soon, he's so hard it tortures him with pain and pleasure both, and her existence is a whip, forcing him to need climax and yet to need her will to have the chance.  She grinds him down through his ego, through his last resorts, and even through his self-conception.</p><p>Each time she forces him to cum in submission to her greater strength, she devours a little bit more of his independence, treachery, and self.</p><p>It's okay; she'll rebuild him to her specs soon enough.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Harley Quinn is risen as one of the Hunters.  Her kind number a little more than one hundred thousand, yet within an hour of the Pulse, the Age of Heroes was dead.  Tall and strong and powerful beyond the nightmares of the Fourth World, prophecy already speaks of a time that neither the left nor the right hand of Darkseid shall be raised against them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tall and strong and </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span> are the Hunters.  Harley Quinn's musclebound frame is not merely a thing of bulk and layered, impossible bulges.  Her head is held high over a cable-corded neck, and her traps support her neck gracefully, rather than overwhelm it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her broad shoulders flow elegantly into arms that indeed are massive.  Huge enough to dwarf the legs of the mightiest men of the past age; and her legs make mock of their </span>
  <em>
    <span>torsos</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  And yet, her limbs are nonetheless shapely and balanced, eye-catching and hypnotic in their perfection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is so easy for the eyes of men or women to be pulled to this line or that prominence, to follow the impossibly brawny form-- and then be trapped.  For the very bulges themselves suggest perfection and fascination.  Ultimately, every ounce of muscle on her is grooved and sculpted to look like the ideal of human form, painted in the shade of </span>
  <em>
    <span>muscle</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like many of her sisters, she gathers human men and women to herself.  Her Drives fill her with constant need, even if she is more capable than most of ignoring it.  She has the Killer Croc as the closest approximation of a suitable male fucktoy; a few, very few friends from the mad and the staff of Arkham Asylum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she has a found treasure: Noah Kuttler, the Calculator.  A metahuman genius focused on the processing and organization of information.  She has a use for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how many different tasks she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> at once, no matter how fast she can accomplish tasks and move on, in the end, Hunter territoriality means she's going to need a numbers guy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunter horniness means he's going to be broken as a sex slave as well.  His weak body, objectively more than decent for a man of his age and somewhat sedentary lifestyle, makes him little more than a crawling worm.  Which…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley checks herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yep, nips every bit as hard as my clit, an' a fresh yum from down under.  This has to be the weirdest kink in the world-- and yet, here it is.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, said kink is whispering in her ear that the Calculator's squirming attempts to avoid submission to her will have earned her closing her calves together over his head.  She snorts.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not having any of that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kuttler whimpers.  Not at the snort; her impossibly hard calves are covering his ears, and sound will not penetrate </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> barrier, nor move it enough to transmit.  Just whimpers, and wriggles again, the fucking measly little worm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Indulging herself a little, Harley reaches out to dispense gentleness and pain to her femmecum-covered slave.  Her right fingers delicately wipe his eyes clean; stroking it away.  Her left strokes her sharp nails across his chest, bleeding him lightly and rubbing his own cum into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he squeals and shudders, she thrusts the long, strong thickness of her forefinger and middle right down his mouth.  "Aw, shoosh and suck," she snorts dismissively.  "Ya seemed ta be enjoyin' myself a bit there."</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Willingly, the squirming Calculator obeys; he knows better already than to include teeth at all.  Just hollowed cheeks, his tongue swirling around fingers that together outsize his cock.  "Mmm, and ya know it too, don'tcha?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley giggles as she relaxes back down onto her ass.  She's still mostly kneeling, big ol' bouncy booty squooshing out around the back of her heels and the bottoms of the legs.  Her shins rest upon his bruised shoulders, but the weight is mostly tilted back on her rump and feet, leaving him just with the constant sting of pain, and not further devastation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lowly plaything sobs a bit… but starts to close his eyes and force his head to bob back and forth over her fingers, trying desperately to slurp up as much of their coating of her femmejuices as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, that's a yes," she coos.  She does shake her head at his sobbing.  "There's nothin' wrong with it, Noah!  Be proud of how much of a slut ya are for me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Noah just gurgles, sucking and sobbing on.  She snorts, and pulls back her finger.  "Look up," she orders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she pulls back from atop him-- but leans forward.  With her pecs tightened to keep her mammoth tits flush against her chest, she flashes both brutally powerful arms up high.  Her hands curl into sledgehammer fists; tightening and rolling back towards her forearms and orienting her knuckles towards her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The effect is instant, on both of them.  Harley lifts her chin a bit, tilting her head to the side and looks down her nose at her worm of a pet.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Look at me, Noah!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On Harley, well, the coiled mass of crisply defined muscles of her forearms bulge out first.  The great confluence of musculature just past the elbow is the biggest beneficiary, the varied striated lengths clearly visible under the taut, pale skin.  Just those alone bulge bigger than the Calculator's biceps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>To be fair, they bulge larger than any Mr. Olympia champion's biceps that have ever been. "Yeah," she groans as he stares at her, bug-eyed.  "Just take it all in."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Which will let me swallow you whole.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up at her, Noah whines and gurgles, his fingers clawing at the vinyl desperately.  His eyes cram open with shock, and though he tries to shake his head clear of the vision of unadulterated strength that is Harley Quinn, he can't.  He's forced to just stare, whole body locking as frozen and stiff as his thin little dick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her upper arms alone would send him into a swoon.  Coupled with the already oversized power flex of her forearms, and the huge, hard bluntness of her pecs, he's simply stunned by the muscles that own him.  They're just too big to make sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If-- but you-- and you were already-- the expansion rates-- the </span>
  <em>
    <span>density!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" the Calculator babbles, each word more and more slurred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sees his lips move and it almost makes her laugh.  One thread at a time, he's trying to calculate the precise slope and curving of her new bod.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Helpless li'l dipshit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He's stuck, as men have often been this night, eyes yoked to follow the lines of definition around and within the colossal peak.  Rising up like some newly discovered supervolcano, born to challenge Olympus Mons' supremacy in the solar system are the biceps of Harley Quinn.  Oh, in fact, they're "only" barrel sized, outmassing his chest-- each-- in the impossibly unyielding humps of muscle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to a man trapped in the hypnotic grooves and entrancing prominence of her biceps, they are mountains, endless mountains he must climb with his vision, only to tumble down to the bottom once again.  His tongue hangs loose, wagging to the left of his mouth-- she can see him yearning to lick any of her muscles, yet unable to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Someone wants to suck somethin' bigger'n fingers, I guess!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley thinks with an internal laugh.  Externally, she simply retains a stern face and sterner pose, leaving her worm in his muscle-lust trance.  The interlocking and interweaving lines of muscle upon muscle occasionally allow her pathetic captive's gaze to wander to the stiffness of her ready triceps, or to become lost in the fractal impossibility of her tertiaries.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's his meta power that puts him here!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She wants to laugh, but she wants to squeeze his mind in the vice a little longer.  He knows what strength should look like; can calculate and plan for heavy hitters and buff mooks alike.  Or could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Faced with muscles like Harley's, with the implication of the damage done by just light brushes of her fingers?  Information overflow-- not just circumference or diameter, but speculated density, the specific curvature of the muscle's rising power, the implied output power…  All of it leaves Noah Kuttler completely locked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, it's too much for her poor, pathetic worm.  Her new lusts range so far that she finds herself groaning with approval as he starts to spasm and thrash on the floor.  As his little nuts swell with semen and the vesicles load, as his prick actually finds room to get a little more achingly stiff-- she smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that is enough.  "HARLEY!" the Calculator sobs.  "Harley-- Harley-- Harley…!"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's shaking and shaking like a somewhat chubby leaf.  His eyes bug out the way the Joker's did between her tits.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even cuter, actually, even if Mistah Jerk's were sexier while they lasted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is why Noah's are cuter.  She gets to see them strain and strain,  tears dripping. His muscle-addicted brain forcing his eyes to torture themselves, while he weeps, trying to finish computing every aspect of even one bicep.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley," he screams, jerking his hips and vibrating his prick back and forth so hastily that his precum makes a sort of rough oblong outline of thin slickness over his belly, legs, and the floor.  He doesn't seem to be able to scream anything else, making it into a desperate plea to be released.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or allowed release.  "Nah," she laughs, and curls her arms </span>
  <em>
    <span>tighter</span>
  </em>
  <span> still.  Her own strength burns against itself, and his weakness heats her clenching core..  "So fuckin' </span>
  <em>
    <span>good!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she moans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd be headfucked by just the gorgeous mass and development of the primary muscles of each arm alone.  There's just too much glistening, taut flesh to analyze, form and function alike to finish any time soon.  The secondary layer, protective and enhancing, adding both extra heft and intricate interaction, would be punishment enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so they are.  He keeps whimpering about his brain or his thoughts; tedious, except for the delicious pain.  The slow erasure of any expression on his face but a blank mixture of pain and pleasure; almost unthinking save for constant, fruitless attempts to describe her mathematically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then there are the tertiaries.  She sucks in the corner of her lip as she watches them hit him the hardest.  He screams, but only weakly, unable to divert himself from drooling over the pornography that is her tertiary muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All along the heavy core musculature of each arm and everywhere else are smaller muscles that supplement and guide the thick base.  Their functional enhancements both add extra organic gearing and flexion power "storage," not unlike flywheels.  They are part of the nigh-divine suite of strength, and the derived complexities are harsh on his poor, limited metagenius.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But aesthetically they are the crucible in which his info-addiction was transmuted, turning him into a total muscle-whore.  Making the need to worship her muscles a sharper, deeper urge than his instinct to gather, assess, and manipulate information and secrets.  All she needs to do is teach him and tame him to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which I will do ta you," she grunts, her thighs beginning to join the same hyperflexion display in response to the hungry, damp delta between them.  "Don't doubt it, Noah."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whoops,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she realizes, looking at his eyes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He ain't hearin' me; hell, now he wouldn't even </span>
  </em>
  <span>feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>me until I started giving him another footjob-- or crushin' bits.  He's just seeing and seeing and a goner.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The tertiaries grew in such that they compliment the overall shapeliness of her frame.  Worse, since they resemble the titanic whole, they create a fractal whirl to trap an onlooker in muscle hypnosis.  It's bad enough for most men, and women too.  For a man whose literal superpower includes rapid collection, analysis, and recall of data…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah Kuttler's already aching cock betrays him yet again.  As he continues to scream her name over and over again, she watches as more and more blood pumps into his erection.  More hormones, more neurotransmitter activity…</span>
</p><p><em><span>Fuck, </span></em><span>Harley</span> <span>thinks as she laughs, and begins to tighten and release her fists and pecs.  </span><em><span>He's</span></em> <em><span>so</span></em> <em><span>hard he's in agony.  Rock!</span></em></p><p>
  <span>She feeds on his pain; his torment nearly as pussy-pleasing as his tongue will be, once she trains him.  Her boobs bounce and jiggle rhythmically with the motion, but her worm's eyes just keep getting lost in her arms.  The way grooves fade slightly into extension, only to surge back, the edges crinkling and striating as they do.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wants to cum so bad you'd think he'd know his bitchword.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Opposite of a safeword, the one thing he can scream to be treated worse.  But treated worse enough for him to jizz at last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Listen to me," she snarls, but flexes no less vastly.  "Listen to me, worm!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley growls, the rumbling sound vibrating through her taut skin.  Now her chest muscles and her abs and everything alongside them bulge out, shuddering with the power of her posing.  Her titanic tits shake back and forth like she was shimmying her shoulders around rather than holding them locked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Listen," he gibbers.  "Yes-- sound, hertz, frequency--"  he begins to babble as close of an approximation to the various measurements that produce her body.  He hasn't the senses for it-- which just makes him shake worse as he tries to guess, tries to find some way to output all of the swirling, steaming mass of data and conclusions in his poor, overwhelmed male mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You need to cum, Noah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"YES!" he screams-- but is not so lost that he lets go and does it. "Please, Harley-- Please!  Please, Harley, please Harley…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley snorts, and leans to the side to kiss the smooth top to her super-sized left bicep.  Then her tongue teases over the top, letting the slickness shine in the fluorescent lighting.  "That ain't </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Noah.  Don't you want to cum for my muscles?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do!" the Calculator screams.  "I have to!  I have to cum for them!  My dick feels like it's--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spits to the side, shattering a hole in the wall.  "That.  Ain't.  It," she growls.  "Like your measly little dick matters?  Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> matter at all?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gurgles, and lolls his head about.  The wimpy little body, tubby and pathetic, squirms slower and slower.  His prick is no less stiff-- if anything, harder and more painfully so-- and his balls look like they're about to burst with the jizz prepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still can't bring himself to get there.  This </span>
  </em>
  <span>is</span>
  <em>
    <span> going to take a few days, after all.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley snarls down at him.  "Say the </span>
  <em>
    <span>word</span>
  </em>
  <span>!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goggles at her, gaping and popping his mouth open and shut.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Am I sure there's a brain I want in there?</span>
  </em>
  <span> she wonders.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, that's what's stranglin' him by the short an' stiffy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who am I, Noah?" she snarls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Harley… Quinn?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who am I, Noah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator screams her name again, and she shakes her head.  Slowly, she begins to lean back, stealing more and more of her hypnotising muscles from his sight.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>No!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" he screams, desperate to remain entrapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You don't command me, Noah," Harley growls, leaning further back.  "You also don't get to call me by name.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who am I, Noah?</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And if he can't manage that, he's out-- permanently.  I got no use for a consigliere who is going to go to less bright than Waylon's croc every time I flex.  An' he's made himself too much of an itch in my pigtails to get out of this free.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But the point has penetrated.  "MISTRESS!" the Calculator screams.  "Mistress, please!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pauses, smirks, and uncurls her arms anyway.  As he starts to sob she suddenly locks them down and in beneath her titanic breasts.  The re-ripple of gargantuan hardness from wrist to shoulder to chest drives her tits forward as well, sending softness shaking over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft except for those so-stiff nips, plunging forward like miniature fists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he descends into stupefied gurgles, Harley flexes tighter and tighter, making harder and harder bulges stand out.  Her thighs are already squeezing and making her quads practically leap out like someone opening up a pop-out book: "Female Anatomy: Muscles" to "Killerest Legs: the Bestest."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Her own title)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's thighs are putting on around their maximum brawn, but her abs slam into stark relief, clenching like interlocking scales or armored plates.  Lifting her chin slightly, she sneers down at him. "It's time, worm.  Cum your little brains out for me again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Limbs splayed wide, kicking and slamming about-- the look seems to have him even worse off than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hrrk-- aah?" seems to be about the best the Calculator's vaunted brain can manage.  She ignores the hateful, snarling part of her new self.  The one that again suggests that his witlessness is sufficient reason to pull his head up into the crook of her arms and give him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>final</span>
  </em>
  <span> muscle entrapment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Harley roars.  "CUM!  CUM FOR ME YOU LITTLE WORM!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cum, he does.  There's nothing particularly impressive about a not-so-well exercised mid-forties man blowing his wad while squealing his head off and mumbling, "Mistress," again and again.  The occasional half-developed equations don't help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But to Harley, seeing those balls bounce as they dislodge their cargo is special not for the visuals, but for the meaning.  "Mfmf… Ah… </span>
  <em>
    <span>ahn!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she screams out, devouring his submission.  As his little shaft bulges to squirt its wad out again and again, she feels an incredible rush of pleasure and power spiral throughout her mega-amazonian frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the power of her Drive, the feeding running through her like lightning, straight from her clit and out to all her muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every sensitized nerve, tuned to pleasure from her prior climaxes, feels every quiver of taut, impenetrable flesh like a slave's licking tongue.  Her core bears down, tightening as much as her curled arms and pumped chest.  Her eyes roll back and she tilts her head, tossing her pigtails about as she roars triumphantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ha… mm… yeah!" she cries out, finally releasing the semi-crab stance.  Her left hand reaches down to her arousal-fattened labia, pinning the damp lips apart to better coat his face in her essence.  "That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking worm!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's pussy gushes, her vast quads flexing to either side.  Enraptured by her own dominance, she steps forward onto his chest, shoving down hard enough to nearly crack the sternum as the feeding orgasm strikes.  Her musk flows with the pleasure, femmecum raining down upon him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spicy-tangy way of reminding him-- even his very </span>
  <em>
    <span>breath</span>
  </em>
  <span> is her territory.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now, where was I?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She licks the corners of her mouth, while her pussy lips make sure that the Calculator gets as many facefulls of her juices as she's got available.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Teaching him to be my bitch, one hole at a time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Like the witless worm she makes him, the Calculator squirms beneath the magnificently musclebound body of Harley Quinn.  He hasn't quite made it over the top; she wants a loyal bitch when she's done, so it's going to take at little while-- hours to days to accomplish a lifetime's worth of conditioning.</p><p>Sure, it's slow, but she doesn't want to damage his abilities too much.  So she trains him; trains him to not just be her whore and slave, but to love it-- to need it.  To need her, her happiness, and most of all...</p><p>Her pleasure.  So she begins by forcing him to the first blowjob of his new life.  No, she hasn't grown a dick.</p><p>It's just that Harley's breasts and especially Harley's nipples are so much bigger, so much fatter than pretty much any normal human's dick that if it wasn't for her Hunter ability to make him stretch and distend his jaw and face, he'd never fit.  But he does, and she wants him to blow her nipple right fucking now.</p><p>So he does, though some part of him hopes to please her long enough to divert resources and flee the planet.  It's a foolish hope-- and she'll swallow it down with him, too.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Trapped beneath the amazingly powerful and tremendously curvy body of Harley Quinn, the Calculator squirms.  From one point of view it is fitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is, after all, just another witless worm.  Feeble of body, barely less limited in his mind than most of his ilk-- as far as the Hunter part of her is concerned, the Calculator exists to serve two purposes: To get her rocks off and to suffer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which generally, gets her off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a great big wonderful circle of climaxes, as far as Harley is concerned.  Oh, he might be in agonizing pain, and every time he cums, she kills a little bit of his independence.  Addicts him a little more to her mega-muscled body.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Feature, not bug,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she purrs.  She's got him cumming up a storm, trapped beneath her bare foot.  She didn't even have to touch his cock-- just flex at him and roar.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Convenient, that!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Another feature of being a Hunter-- all-around surround sight.  So she can watch him, and enjoy the show while still posing triumphantly.  She's got quite the pose, glutes squeezing together, right foot on his chest, the backs of her hands on her curvaceous hips, pecs and chest thrust forward, her pussy flooding onto his face…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yowza.  I'm hot!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  And all along she gets to watch Noah alternate between bitter tears, desperate lust, and utter terror.  When enough of her cunny-honey flows off his face that he can look up, he's instantly hard again.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Flattering!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I</span>
  <em>
    <span> think my girlbits are pretty stunning and fantabulous.  But it's nice to have someone else confirm the prettiness.  Even if, you know.  Worm and slave.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that the qualifier gets Harley </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> wet, as it happens.  Indeed, as she watches his eyes start to regain some of their coherency beneath his tight-shut lids, it makes her moan, "Fuck-- you do really go for a muscle show, don'tcha?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah shudders, but there's enough of him in there to whisper, "Yes, mistress."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks.  "Yes, mistress, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who'da thought blubbering could be sexy?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  But the Calculator's stifled, choked weeping, caught on his own arousal and shame-- his lungs full of her potent scent-- it does get her going… again.  As does his answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, Mistress Harley!" he cries, the words strangled on the same marks of her power in him.  "I love your muscles-- I can't stop watching them until it hurts too much to keep my eyes open!"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The buggy-eye look really is pretty on a guy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley admits to herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's right, Calculoser," she snarls.  "You love every part of my big, buff, badass muscle-bod.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  So why the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> do you think you're allowed to be ashamed of being a horny little oral slut for me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't answer.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, since I just basically fucked his brain, he might be a little confused.  Oops.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley smirks.  "Musclebitch gotcha tongue there, slick?" she asks, her fingers almost gentle as she wipes her pussyjuice off his eyes again.  This time, she doesn't share, lifting her fingers back to her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She groans almost as much as though she'd put her fingers past her </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span> lips.  "Dayam, I taste </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Anyway, here's how it is: I put something in your mouth, you suck on it unless I tell you otherwise.  My fingers, my clit, my muscles-- yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" she sneers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah opens his mouth, shudders, and tucks his chin in.  "Yes, mistress," he says softly.  "I don't know how you di--  Ahhhhhh!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slaps him gently, cutting off his babbling with pain and his own screams.  Just a light brush of her hand against his cheek and a stinging </span>
  <em>
    <span>SWAT</span>
  </em>
  <span> noise rings out.  He squeals for a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heh.  Painslut," she purrs.  "You're just a big ol' Harley-slut though, ain'tcha?" she chuckles.  "Ya like me hurtin' you, ya love my muscles, and you seem to be pretty greedy to taste me.  Yup.  Total whore for Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>This time he just whimpers, and flinches as she taps the other side of his face.  "Whore for Harley," she repeats.  "An' that's </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  You gotta learn, Noah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley chews on her lower lip.  "'Cos this is the start of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span> enslavement," she giggles.  "Now, let's get back to teachin' you what ya should and shouldn't be ashamed of."</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She sniffs, and waves at his cock.  "That, fer one, and your belly, sure.  You've been a lazy little bitch, an' that's gonna change."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glaring down at him, she taps his nose with her fingertip.  "But being </span>
  <em>
    <span>ashamed</span>
  </em>
  <span> of being a whore for Harley?" she hisses.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  You wanna go down that route as my bitch, Calculator?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah stammers, his arms rising weakly, fingers gesticulating in almost random motions.  "Oh, just start jerkin' it, worm," Harley orders, and he obeys, one hand down to rapidly run up and down his shaft with almost violent intensity.  The other gathers his own spent seed and pre to rub over the sensitive head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Look, I'll help ya," she growls.  Relaxing her pose, she shimmies her way down until-- knees on the ground, not him-- she's resting butt-to-feet once more.  Ever kersquooshed against her heels, it takes her jiggly-wriggly cheeks a while to stop bouncing from the motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gives her pussy a few thrusts with her first two right fingers, while the left circles over her clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, still jilling her clit about whilst her pet jacks off frantically, Harley pulls her fingers from her cunt.  A trailing line of arousal briefly connects her arousal-fattened labia to the arousal-covered digits, thinning and breaking as she dives her fingers for his face.  Obedient-- no, eager-- the Calculator opens his mouth wide again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's right," she repeats as his cheeks promptly hollow and his head bobs.  "You </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> the fact that my fingers here are bigger-- an' longer-- than your cute little near-clit of a dick, don't cha?"  Her tongue strokes over her lips. "Deep throat me fer a yes, bitch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah obeys without even thinking about it, eyes going wide and watering as he suppresses his gag reflex.  No hesitation-- hell, his fist pumps even more vigorously up and down over his shaft, slamming against the sensitive head while his other hand soaks more of his thin fluids onto said tip, igniting the nerves beneath.  His howling unsuppresses his gag reflex, making him choke and spasm over her invading fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I feel teeth, ya lose 'em," she snarls down at him.  Panting heavily, she fucks his throat with her fingers, thrusting back and forth, stroking the deft tips over the top of his mouth, tickling the tongue, especially in the back.  Her eyes just get wider and wider, pupils almost fully dilated while her pulsing clit throbs back at her other fingers so hard it's like the clit's fucking her fingers!</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why not?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Stroking a bit of drool from the side of her cheek-- Noah Kuttler really is a squishable worm-- Harley begins to gyrate her hips, grinding her clit back against her rubbing fingertips.  She keeps the rhythm fucking his face, too, connecting her oral domination to her own pleasure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is the important part, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rapes him like that for a little while.  The more he sucks, the faster she pets her clit.  The more she pets her clit, the more pussy-musk fills the air-- and the harder Noah Kuttler gets.  And the more precum he has with which to slap his little willy about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So the more he sucks, the more pleasure he receives.  It might take years for an ordinary woman to condition her slave to instinctively link the two, but Harley is a Hunter.  Part of what makes her such a threat to other entities on her scale is how easily and instinctively she sorts social groups-- like a Hunting party, or her Mistress/slave relationship-- into their perfect positions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has the perfect rhythm on her pussy.  A bit overstimulated on the clit, honestly, but she doesn't want anything blocking his view of her nether lips.  Always there, always plump and damp and demanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's pleasured cries always come at the right moment for the signals his dick is screaming to reach his brain.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Always</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The fresh waves of musk, laden with suggestive pheromones, tease and tantalize his mind, carried through his lungs to reinforce the resonance of her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two fingers on her clit.  Two fingers down his throat.  Her body surrounds his head with pleasure-- but only so long as he sucks like the bitch he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or rather, the bitch I'm gonna make him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah Kuttler is instinctively fighting the connection between oral violation and his inexpert self-stroking, though he's giving her fingers a heck of a hummer.  She can see his fingers falter at his cock-- briefly, before the outraged command of her snarl reaches him.  "Keep your fuckin' hands on it or ya lose it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kutt</span>
  </em>
  <span>ler," she sneers.  "I don't care if you get soft-- though ya won't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care if ya go raw.  Unless yer bleedin' enough to make a mess… You keep.  Jerking.  Off."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes bug out again; panic swirls through them.  He wants to know why.  Wants to demand an answer.  But all she has to do is grunt to get his attention, then squeeze her stomach good and tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her muscles are all the answers he needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't take Harley long like that-- to overwhelm his mind for the moment.  He brings himself to completion three times; she cums on his face five more.  The swirling satisfaction of </span>
  <em>
    <span>control</span>
  </em>
  <span> mixed with agony gets her open-mouthed screaming again and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're brutal orgasms, for a brutal little game; the Calculator's body isn't in shape for any of this.  He's driving himself to do it, making himself hack and wheeze in between screaming "Mistress!" as the cells of what he laughably calls muscle fill with lactic acid.  The burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's smart enough to pick up some technique, desperately using his own cum to lube himself up for more.  But she forces him on, unwinded in her triumph over him.  It may not be a glorious triumph, over a worm already in her grasp…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is a triumph, and so the ecstatic pulses Harley's Hungers feed her are glorious indeed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, he forces himself onwards out of fear.  Every muscle in his body is outmatched by just the little flex and twitch of her forearm as she frigs her clit in an endless spiral.  Her rage is pure and great, the snap of her voice punishment enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention the bruises and cracking in bones and joints he's already suffered.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder if Wondy got her amazonianing squared like me, an' either way, if you can rent a Purple Ray or something.  Probably not.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But pain feeds Harley, feeds her needs and feeds her pussy.  So soon, he's starting to see his pain and her pleasure as one.  That's not his motivator by the end; by the time he splurts out the almost-nil third climax, and she dismissively tells him, "Okay, Calcs, you've gotten less sucky at suckin'-- give your willy a rest from whacking."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that point, he's not masturbating because he fears pain, humiliation, or having his mind lost in forced contemplation of her jigglesome tits or her harsh, hard muscles.  After all, those are his goals, what he yearns for.  No, by the end, Noah Kuttler, once master of his own domain, is jerking himself raw for one simple reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because his mistress told him to, and that is more than enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  For a moment, the conflicting orders agonize him far more than any damage he could do to himself, until a sort of last-in first-out sorts itself into place.  Obedient, the Calculator ceases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All too soon, after Harley snaps her fingers in front of his face, the furtiveness sets back in.  She watches him, dispassionate in some senses, incredibly irked in others.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's a lesson, Harley.  You may be able to break them much faster than the Joker broke you, but not all of them will be as pathetically easy as Waylon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he's pretty pathetic as he stares up at her.  He tries to hold his head for a moment, but his fingers tremble away.  Trying to catch thoughts that dribble out and away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please… mistress," he groans.  "Just-- just tell me what you want, and I'll do it-- just… the pain!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah's face is ashen as she glares at him more.  A roll of her powerful shoulders leaves him  cringing into an almost fetal ball.  Of course, it's accompanied by clenched fists and two loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>crick</span>
  </em>
  <span> pops of her neck-- showing off the interplay between the cable-like muscles of the neck and the smoother breadth of her traps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's pretty amused to note his hormone levels elevate faster at the beginning and end of the motion, not the middle. When the motion and the clenched fists show off the hilly hardness of her biceps, as opposed to the mountainous softness of her breasts.  He's horny-- and panicked-- for all of it, knees tucked under trembling hands and thighs squishing against his belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Keep those legs wide," Harley orders, and, whimpering, the (rather ex) supervillain makes sure his knees are spread in either direction.  Leaving his rapidly re-hardening cock exposed and waving about pathetically.  Still covered in its own cum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't want to lose track of that tiny thing," she says with a laugh.  "I might forget ya have it.  As for what I want…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drops down with a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>boom</span>
  </em>
  <span>, straight into a cross-legged position beside his head.  Her new density makes the floor shake when her lushly-curved ass smacks the floor, despite having her feet up beneath her.  Being curled up in a ball does him no favors, sending him rocking back and forth and smacking the back of his skull onto the floor again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's exactly it," she giggles as the Calculator screams once, choking off into strangled sobs almost immediately.  Her sex slicks, and she groans "Mm," reaching up to rub both nipples in squeezing, lightly twisting motions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sucking in her lower lip again to run her teeth over it, only to push it back out again with her tongue, Harley smirks.  Her prey's eyes are glassy once more and his face is screwed up, caught in a rictus vice between his pain and confusion.  "That's… exactly… it," she pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then her eyes go wide and she whips out a hand to grab his short, wavy brown hair.  He can barely gurgle out another cry of alarm as she growls, "It's your </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain</span>
  </em>
  <span> I want, Noah!"  Her cheeks are blushing like a schoolgirl, bright under her pale white skin-- and her nipples seem to throb thicker with arousal by the moment.  "Your pain feeds me-- an' I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hungry!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No-no-no-please-no-no-please!" is all her prey can manage, earning himself another snarl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You forgetting the important word there, worm?" Harley asks, tugging his chubby little torso half into her lap.  As he wails out apologies-- and, to her satisfaction, her proper title of Mistress, again and again-- she switches her grip to the bridge of his nose, pinching her knuckles down and over his nostrils.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes him gape and wheeze, wide, open-mouthed attempts at breathing.  Her snarling face half-quirks a snarl.  "You ever chow down on a whole can a'somethin' at once, worm?" she asks, looking over his soft, sedentary form.  "Ya look like it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wha-- no, Mistress," he chokes, his voice taking on that honking edge from her painful grip on his nose.  His panic is making each breath shallow, and the shallower he breathes, the worse the panic gets.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Smells like the best kinda fairpark hotdogs, kinda…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her mouth waters a bit, moistening like her lower lips, but she moves on with her intentions.  "Really?  Pity, you coulda used the practice.  Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>suck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, bitch!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's renewed snarl hits Noah just as the confusion does, the spiking fear following.  His mouth gapes open all the wider-- just in time for her other hand to whip around behind his head.  The palm slams his head forward so fast over her nipple it almost breaks his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she's not actually into that, so she is careful enough to make sure the pathetic little things are just strained.  She's not as merciful with his jaw.  Somehow, despite the fact that her nipples are just a bit larger than his mouth should be able to hold, his cheeks distend and his jaw stretches painfully, but does not snap.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Privileges of badassery, I guess,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley thinks, then frowns.  "Guess I ain't beaten ya enough, Calcs," she purrs, licking her lips as she crams him forward until his jaw looks like it's gone unhinged, snake style or something, just to fit the fat juiciness of her nip.  Oh, there's a little give in the crinkly flesh, and she ends up with lots of little temporary dips from his teeth sinking in as a result.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that just feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  His puny maw and punier teeth are far too weak to even make the "bite" marks sting anything worse than a pleasurable little sharpness.  Even yanking his head back and forth to simulate bobbing he probably couldn't do even if he was trying just gives her the feeling of light, submissive fingernails stroking back and forth over the hyper-sensitive flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The action of pounding his painslut face with her huge, fat nipple is pretty pleasurable, right enough.  The jolts of sensation from his teeth behind rattled along the length and his tongue flailing around make for fun little triplets with the pussy-pleasing spikes of his pain, and his screaming is functionally giving her nip a nice hummer as it goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's not enough.  It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>enough, and Harley's short, fast pants of pleasure honestly just make her anger flood through her body the way her cunt floods itself.  The already craggy, rough-hewn expanse of her broad back is tightening up, from the center of her traps out.  Like thousands of ogres' fists being clenched, the individual sections of her traps and lats and obliques all flex out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the smaller and deeper muscles, teres and rhomboids and all that jazz, are pumping out with her anger.  It folds around in front of her body, picking up her abs into a fierce, shredded mass, bulging out the intercostals between her ribs and more.  The rage that follows her heavy panting </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> makes her pecs take on volume and density, the definition popping along every last centimeter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tears streaming down the Calculator's face are insufficient payment for his disrespect on their own.  They do add a pleasant quiver of pleasure to her labia themselves, and she can't help but grunt with pleasure as her nipple is rubbed by his strangled-off anguish.  Which in turn is redoubled as her fuller than full tits suddenly slam forward, hammering her thick nipple back into his head against the motion of her yanking hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He "hums" all the harder when she reaches down with her other hand.  Her knuckles squeeze his left nipple, and he screams like a vibrator set on high.  Her already mammoth breast itself swells as the pectorals bulge out-- and of course, that weird hardening of what should be soft and cushiony soon follows.  "I… told you… to </span>
  <em>
    <span>SUCK, BITCH!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's roar finally penetrates the agony and fear of the Calculator's mind.  Perhaps it's the clear demonstration that things </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> get worse; perhaps his supposed genius finally calculates the only </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> escape from her is submission.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>No escape at all, really.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So, just like he learned to with her fingers, the Calculator begins to suck.  She can't quite call it hollowing his cheeks-- they're stretched far too taut for that-- but she can feel the suction, making her big boob warm and the nip itself pulse with the pleasure of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Better," Harley growls, but a smile and her tongue flick across her lips.  "Ya shouldn't need me ta keep correctin' you," she groans as her rugged abs begin to curl and roll, her torso shaking to hammer his face with her tit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a bit softer than doing it by flex, so she makes sure he understands that his pain is part of the point.  Her belly clenches and rolls faster, up and down in waves of rough strength, her pussy seeming to collect all of his pain and use it like some phantom dildo.  To keep it up, she twists her knuckles' vice-like press over his left nipple harder and harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, she can reach down to grab his tiny dork in her fierce fist; the spasms of his pain taking the place of yanking him around by the hair.  There, she whips him with pleasure, rather than pain-- or rather, giving him an almost delicate little handie to make sure his brain begins to intimately-- very intimately-- tie pleasure and pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her knuckles twist on his absurdly tiny nipple, and he slams his own distended maw back and forth so very, very sweetly over her nipple, no matter how much it hurts his jaw and mouth to do so.  His tongue lashes over the nerve-laden flesh, and the "hum" of his agonized cries makes the crinkly nub pulse so hard with pleasure she's not sure it isn't getting ready to splurt milk down his mouth or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(She isn't lactating-- she'd know.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even as his pain pleasures her and he semi-volunteers for the pain to pleasure him further, her fist is moving in soft, squeezing rubs over his pre-spewing cock.  She carefully shifts her fingers' knuckles to better caress his shaft, teasing his tuned-up nerves deliciously.  With her thumb tucked into the curl of her fist, she swirls his precum around generously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between neural induction and the moist, slick heat of her fist, soon, she's got him feeling like he's trapped in an invulnerable, muscular pussy, raping his dick and his mind all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Harley pants and keeps rocking and rolling her heavily muscled torso in sinuous moves that snap at the end, almost like a sitting belly dance.  That motion in turn thrusts her tit lewdly into his captive face, and her nipple pounds his mouth-hole like her best candy-cane dildo up his ass.  He's kept in constant agony; whatever the stretching effect of her nipple is, it's not overly generous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It keeps Noah's jaw and cheeks from tearing, and that's about it.  Meanwhile, she subjects him to both a brutal titty twister and a sensuous, rapturous handjob that </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels</span>
  </em>
  <span> like the world's tightest pussy is giving him a firm but caring ride.  So she keeps him, fucking his face, raping his mind, and lashing the sensations of pain and ecstasy tighter and tighter in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes!" she snarls.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you make a fan-fucking-tastic oral whore, Noah!"  Grunting and shifting her hips on the floor, she moans happily, though her fingers and nipple are no less vicious with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nor are her words.  "This… mmmf-- this how you made it to the top, Noah?  Not them supposed super-brains, but sleeping your way up the laddah?"  She giggles; he's too far gone into paroxysms and gyrating his hips against her hand to really listen, but she coos on anyway.  "Yeah, that makes more sense.  Ya get down under a desk and blow some tough boss-lady's clit a bit, or some C-suite cock, an' you hear all kindsa things, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks.  "You'll hafta tell me which ya liked better; you're going to be getting plenty of Harley-muff to feed your hunger on, but maybe I should have Waylon give your mouth a workover every night?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Noah's settled into the rhythm enough that he can make out her words.  He's too far gone to really get the impudence it'd be most fun to smack down, but the writhing, spluttering cries refresh the hummer feel of her nip. "Unf-- yeah..  I should do that even if dicks was just a sometimes treat for ya-- you're too </span>
  <em>
    <span>tight,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Noah!  Waylon can help-mmmf… Can help… ah!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Climaxing, Harley releases her hold on his nipple, curling her brawny left arm around his back.  With her hand planted against the back of his head once more, she shoves his head over all of her nipple, his lips and nose touching areola.  Then she keeps shoving further, burying his face completely in the smothering softness of unflexed mega-melon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But not his ears, nor does she relinquish her fist's hold on his suddenly-spasming cock.  "Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah</span>
  </em>
  <span>," she moans, pussy gushing over the floor while his shaft spends itself into her hand.  "You can practice sucking on Croc-cock an ' work your way up to bein' a good nipple whore fer your mistress."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley holds Noah into that for a while.  As contemptuous of his fruitless attempts to breathe as of the delicious shame that runs through him at the thought of being forced to suck another man's dick off.  That seems to be somehow worse for him than implying that his (lacking) oral skills were the foundation of his empire rather than his mind and </span>
  <em>
    <span>social</span>
  </em>
  <span> manipulatory talents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some very small part of her feels guilty about the latter.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>'How did you do it?  Did you fuck someone from the finance board?'</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harleen was a much more stressed but much less hurt woman than Harley… and Harley remembers how she was hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's only a small part.  How easy it is to make him feel humiliated by the thought of gay sex, as opposed to the agonizing pain she's inflicting on him, the rape… it makes her all the more contemptuous of him.  So there's no apologies-- and as she forces his cock back to its full hardness then goes for his nipple again, there's no mercy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She intends for Noah Kuttler to be her vizier and consigliere.  But like any man-- any human or metahuman woman, too-- he's still just meat.  There to serve her… and to feed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But in memory of Professor Collins…  No more of the 'sleeping their way to the top,' gag, Harls.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator lost track of time.  That isn't supposed to happen.  He's a little spectrum usually, and ever since he was able to figure out his average heart rate without needing a clock, he's been able to use his pulse-- no matter how quick-- to tell time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere past the half an hour mark of Mistress Qui-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley Quinn,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he fiercely reminds himself-- raping him, he lost track of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worse, it wasn't because he passed out again, or he was otherwise unaware.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was because Quinn dominated him so thoroughly that the only thing he cared about was pleasing her.  Even being hurt started to feel good.  First, because she did some freaky shit to him that appears to have jumbled his nerves--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he would be terrified that he's having a bitch of a time unknotting </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his head except--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he was glorifying being hurt, not because of his own pleasure at it…  </span>
  <em>
    <span>But simply because it made that bi… that b…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought that he can't make a thought because of her is nearly as frightening as the thought itself.  Noah feels surrounded by darkness and dark spirals where it matters most: in his mind.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it even my mind still?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to scream, "No!" at the top of his lungs, but doesn't, not even in his own mind.  Is it because he wants to say yes-- it is his mind?  Is it because he's afraid of saying no to her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Calculator doesn't know.  Bits and pieces fragment off of the only part of him that he's ever believed really matters.  Like each new whirl in his own head is like being back staring at her muscles too closely again, and he's shedding parts of his mind each time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sobs, stretching out as best he can.  He's had his face ridden-- and repeatedly violated by that </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking can-sized nipple</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- the taste of her is lingering in his mouth.  A body taste, delicious in its tanginess, but all around his face, soaked into his hair-- into the barely healed wounds that she gave him by simply brushing her fingernails across his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's holding him across her thighs, sitting on a low bench that escaped her horniness.  His femmecum-sodden hair is pulled back, exposing his neck; his back is arching over her rugged thigh like a sacrifice over some rough-hewn stone table.  But warm-- ah, God, so warm...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wanted to be hurt more because it pleased her.  God, save me!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The terror runs through him in a way that Quinn's colossal majesty simply couldn't do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's used to powerful, musclebound opponents.  None… quite so powerful, so musclebound, or so beautiful, but he's used to them.  He's even used to having to compensate for their power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley Quinn fucked his mind so hard that for a while, he was lost in some waking dream-- nightmare-- where everything he did came not for his own purposes…  but simply to get her pussylips clenching a bit harder, her folds a bit wetter…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where his existence was simply to be a cock and a mouth, fit only for her amusement and lust.  He keeps trying to return to his original plan-- with modifications.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>All I have to do is hold together, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he promises himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley drags him along over her enormous quadriceps.  The nerves of the back are usually too weak and widespread to get detailed tactile sense, but her hard, harsh limbs are so well developed (and so overdeveloped in mass) that he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>forced</span>
  </em>
  <span> to remember every exact groove and bulge.  Like he was seeing it in person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noah whimpers.  "Mistress Harley," he gasps.  "What-- what do you want?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just give me time to think,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he pleads of an Almighty he's disdained for years and is now hoping is every bit as patriarchal as the most conservative of His followers would have the rest believe.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just give me time to think and get her trusting me so I can start diverting resources-- I can get the fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>off</span>
  <em>
    <span> this planet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, please!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know the answer, dammit!"  The only deity that answers is the physical goddess holding him captive.  "Still slow, Noah?" she laughs in that hellish mix of bell-tones and gravelly Brooklynesque.  "You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> what I want."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gritting his teeth, Noah groans, and shakes his head.  "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mistress, I don't, please-- I don't understand-- don't you understand, Mistress?"  He knows he's babbling but he can hardly tell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, the bewitching scent of his owner's wetness haunts him all the harder the more he babbles.  That long, strong red tongue strokes across her full lips, and the groans she makes frighten him.  What will she do to him?  Her huge fingers are already tightening over his arms like manacles being cinched to blood-pressure cuff tightness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes back and forth, eyes open wide.  When she doesn't respond, he gasps, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>You're swallowing my mind, Mistress!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I can't think-- I don't know-- it's terrifying!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Harley says with a cackle.  "It's your mind I want, Noah.  Mine, forever-- or at least as long as it lasts…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He screams again, soon muffled as she starts to cram his head into her cleavage.  So big and round and soft that they quickly envelope his face.  More; he's so slender she can easily fit his </span>
  <em>
    <span>shoulders</span>
  </em>
  <span> in, if not as tightly as when it's his head alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Might not be long if you don't get smart about losin' your mind, bitch."  He feels the shrug, too surrounded by tits to see a thing.  "But that's okay-- I'm going to get off either way."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>That was then; this is now: Poison Ivy's more delicate destruction of the Calculator's ego and independence has completed much of the work, and she is being rewarded by the privilege of eating out her Mistress Peanut's absolutely divine pussy.  It's the reward she wants, for the action she was inspired to take.</p><p>But it's Harley's heart, Ivy's Harls, that she really wants to pleasure, and so she calls Harls back from distant lands of thought.  For now, she thinks to shed Harley... for Harleen once more.</p><p>To shed the Arkham state of mind.  But can she?  Because she wasn't even finished with the Calculator then...</p><p>And as she dominated the Calculator, the Arkham mindset threatened to overthrow her.  So she sends it to the side, with the Hungers and the empathy distance.  Because unlike the vast majority of Hunters, Harley has some mercy.  Certainly for Waylon and even a little bit for Noah...</p><p>But for now, she has a mission of mercy for those who couldn't take care of themselves as they are even in a normal apocalypse.</p><p>Arkham's guard dogs.  And it's while she's using her social dominance post-superpowers that the loop begins to close.</p><p>"Still looking after strays, Harls?"</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"An' he made for a good vibrator, sure," Harley tells Poison Ivy-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least Mistress Peanut remembered to open her legs first this time so I can actually hear</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- while running her graceful fingers through Ivy's hair, toying around the edge of one of her roses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling makes Ivy drool afresh.  She'd say she didn't have more drool to give, except that her mistress' snatch is so mouthwatering, there's no drought to be had.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>It sounds like you had something more in mind to say, my love?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to ask across the link, but unwilling to stop tonguing her mistress' beloved pussy, she pulls her head back until just the tip of her tongue is dancing on the end of Harley's stiff clit.  There, she makes sure her eyes are focused right at where her beloved's eyes will meet her pupils-- even though Harley's gorgeous tit-mountains are in the way.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>And starts to lick the shape of a question mark again and again on Harley's clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Ivy expected, it tickles her lover's fancy.  And her sense of humor.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And it's getting her off, coating my tits in femmejuices, so win-win-WIN!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling from ear to ear, Harley begins to squeeze those huge, hard glutes of hers together, making the plush, curvaceous fat of her ass push out even further to the side as she sits.  It exaggerates the muscle-hourglass figure, makes her lovely batch of abs tighten and curl </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> prettily…  And more importantly to Ivy, it grinds Harley's absolutely divine snatch right over her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy moves with the steady rubbing, tooling her question mark over Harley's clit repeatedly, though she needn't.  Groaning and purring, Harley goes on.  In between pants and gasps and musky flooding of Ivy's green face, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck-- Mm.  He did swear to serve me-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you tryin' to be the Riddler with that tongue, Ivy?-- but there wasn't near th'same clicky-cosmic shebang going on as with Waylon."  Harley's strong hands cup gently around another rose.  She tugs </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> softly-- not to pluck the rose, just to strain the connection to Ivy as Ivy squeals into her pussy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a smug-smiled pause to enjoy Ivy's shared orgasm, Harley wipes a forearm the size of a milk jug across her face, her own enormous jugs bobbing from the resonant pleasure.  "Mm, yeah-- I guess, with whatcha said earlier Red-- that meant he wasn't quite so, uh, into it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Indeed, beloved."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley smirks.  "Well, that's kinda why I dragged him up into the hotness seat--" she leaves Ivy's rose to a single hand for just a moment, swiping her fingers from pussy to navel-- "And then gave 'im some body-scissors every time he came until I did."  She giggles.  "Amazing how much better his muff divin' form was after getting a taste of what these babies can do, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If a bit cruel to th' little worm," Harley adds with a wry half-grin while she strokes the same hand over her "motivators"-- the enormously muscled thighs that are indeed to either side of Ivy's head.  Ivy does her lingual best for Harley, curling her tongue around her clit and then squeezing and pressing it against the labia in rapid strokes.  But it's not because of the enormous sartorius muscles, running like bridge cables along the length of said thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy nuzzles at Harley's pussy again.  "Mm.  The delicious kind of cruel, my mistress.  I'm sorry he didn't catch on sooner."  She sighs a bit and kisses her beloved's beloved clit.  "Or at all until my weakness was close enough to his to make the final seasoning of his mind for your repast, my love."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses along those deadly muscles, adoring their wonder.  Her kisses mark her mistress's flesh with green stimulants, making Harley flex even harder as she groans.  "Mmmf-- fuck… Oh yeah, he didn't seem quite as happy to meet 'em…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not the incredible hyper-development and mass, not the rolling series of huge prominences ringed with long dips and grooves, connected by tertiary consort muscles.  Ivy has not the slightest fear of her mistress's gargantuan quads; she wouldn't even fear them closing.  She has something far stronger than a Hunter's legs to protect her, and it's not her otherwise yes, fairly tough skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has Harley's word, and Harley's bonded love.  The stars will go out and even their singularity corpses collapse into each other, and still the latter will go on; and the former is as strong as Harley's soul.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, Mistress Harley's legs are </span>
  </em>
  <span>of course</span>
  <em>
    <span> an exquisite melding of sexy curves, sexier strength, and elegance in motion.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So I worship them just for themselves, and fear them not.  But I have excellent reasons.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy is about to return to her most delicious (and just) desserts when she realizes there's something off in the bond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilts her head, looking up at Harley while she daintily slides a finger around her lips, picking up the remnant femmecum.  She makes sure Harley feels her full love and lust, staring fiercely into her eyes whilst doing so, and adds a little, "Oooohh, Harley," while her tongue swirls around the tip.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes-- a wince, there.  Almost faster than I can see, but not faster than I can feel.  Oh, my love.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy plants her palms together and fingers to fingers, tucking her elbows in hard over her pillowy breasts.  She shifts and squirms up to her feet, moaning happily at the tightness, but isn't surprised when Harley doesn't order her back down.  Despite the mega-amazonian woman's horniness, so clear across the bond and in the flush of her pale, pale skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ivy squirms her silky-soft and sinuously jiggly ass about, brood-bearing hips shaking to and fro.  That at least gets a savage cry from Harley's corded throat.  "Red!" she growls, and whips an arm brawnier than Ivy's leg around Ivy's ass, hand clenching across Ivy's far asscheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy shakes her rugged shoulders to and fro, too; flexing her biceps and delts lightly whilst rolling her heavy tits far more dramatically.  She wriggles with the motion of Harley pulling her onto one of those beautifully deadly thighs, crosses her legs at the knees.  Caught where she longs to forever be, her lover's lap, she strokes her palms over Harley's cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Tell me, Harls?" she says, her voice low and intimate but with force that nearly makes it an order.  "This has something to do with the look on your face when I found you, doesn't it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The curl of Harley's great left arm is an erotic moment just of itself.  Ivy's breath catches at the sudden, dramatic swell of Harley's bicep, looking so big and well-developed that Ivy could swear every muscle fiber was visible to the naked eye around the edges.  It's so warm against Ivy, and all its hardness means is she's safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her forearm is thickly coiled with great, cable-like forearms, following along the main pythonic nest just past the elbow.  They grow more distinct towards the wrist, and Ivy loves the way the powerful ridges feel nestled up against her own rough-hewn back.  Ivy snuggles into Harley's embrace, and looks up shyly at her, stroking one hand over the larger woman's jawline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley kisses Ivy's palm, and then her lips; just light and fast but the taste lingers on.  "Yeah, Red, it is."  Ivy moans softly, squirming neck and shoulders and hips and legs and arms-- everything, shivering from the heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surrounded by muscle and pressed against luscious curves, Ivy is not exactly impatient to move on.  Her squirms fade slowly, letting her writhe into the immense pillowy goodness of her bonded lover.  But time ticks on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a lovely bit of quiet.  Ivy has more than just the hard and the soft to content her.  Harley's fingers run their way over Ivy's amazonian frame, but the silence settles around her-- between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy brings both her hands up, the green contrasting against the pale.  She searches Harley's blue eyes, noticing that while her pupils might be meeting Ivy's, and her lips have a classic Harley smile, there's something missing in both.  The bond communicates Harley's abiding love and warmth-- but Ivy's getting better used to sifting through the sensations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So far away, my love?" Ivy whispers, feeling the storm of thoughts.  "I'm lonely in your arms, Harl; join me back here again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile rises halfway along the larger musclewoman's face, and she wraps both titanic arms as softly tight as she can.  "Oooof-- and oooh, to boot," Ivy purrs, red lips parting in a low gasp as she's squeezed deliciously tight against Harley's expansive chest.  Her own generous breasts rub into the soft top of Harley's larger rack, and the feedback loop strokes Ivy's pleasure centers like a finger on her slit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley exhales slowly but deeply, continuing to grind their tits against one another.  "I was kinda wonderin'-- then an' now an' on an' off…"  She kisses Ivy's lips a bit fiercer than before, both hands settling over her concubine's heavily built shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?" Ivy asks, and Harley swallows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do ya think about goin' back to callin' me, well… Harleen?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy doesn't hesitate in the slightest.  "If that is what you wish…"  It's her turn for a quirky grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My love, our roots are intertwined now.  No, that's not quite right.  I'm a graft to your trunk, my love, and believe me, I'm enjoying the dickens out of said trunk…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers stroke around the powerful bulges and tight grooves of Harley's-- Harleen's-- unyielding lats and obliques.  Her green lips part in quicker and quicker pants.  Just touching her mistress making her face blush bright purplish-red and making her hips squirm from the powerful pulses between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she squeezes the hyper-exaggerated plushness of Harleen's rump.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lovely,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Ivy sighs happily.  "Anyway, Peanut-- your name has never been what bound us together.  It's always been your heart, your loyalty, and how fierce you look bent over or in a tumble or…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen laughs softly, and touches her forehead to Ivy's.  "Guess I shoulda known, eh, Pammie?"  The immensely muscled woman presses her nose into Ivy's hair, right by a rose, and inhales slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs ruefully.  "I'm not sure of it, yet.  Being Harley has brought me some incredible adventures Harleen never would have seen, but…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's pulled along with Harleen staring into Arkham and the past.  The Joker's body is gone-- Ivy made sure of that-- but his influence is wrapped around Harle</span>
  <em>
    <span>y</span>
  </em>
  <span>'s big, bare shoulders nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So I finished havin' my way with Mister Short-Dork Smarty-Buttons there-- again again-- an', well…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feel of the Calculator's face trapped between and beneath Harley's ass cheeks is nearly as delightful as the tonguing he gave, desperate for air.  His heart still beats, and his mouth keeps trying to inhale, and she still has a use for him.  So she stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's new body makes quite the show out of such a simple motion  Crouched back on her heels, the motion </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span> makes both the thewy, striated, near-spherical mass of her calves bulge out, and the buff-broadness of her thunderstorm thighs.  Definition becomes almost shockingly distinct, and mass accumulates like she was sucking Venom in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Running her middle finger over her still-engorged labia, the fleshy-curvy beauty of her powerful pussy makes her shudder again.  She swings one leg over Noah's prone form, the embellished curve of her hips making the motion as sinfully sexual as though she was straddling his body for a thigh-ride.  Her whimsy turns the swing into a bit of a spin as she steps away from him, fingertip to her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sheesh, but I taste good," Harley says, licking her fingertip again.  Yet it pales a bit; the direct touch of tongue to tanginess is stronger than the indirect, chemical sense of her scent, but her scent casts all things' tastes ahead of time, just like her hearing and sight functionally tell her what things will </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> like, and so anticipation is all but lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought is a chilling reminder of how far away from humanity she has become, and she concentrates on the Calculator.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Heh.  I could make </span>
  </em>
  <span>him</span>
  <em>
    <span> a minion suit.  Dress him up in somethin' skintight, make Waylon be his gym buddy, make him dance around when he delivers economic reports…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  It's easy enough for her to sketch out every detail of the minion suit in her mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Red and black still, of course, no sense messing with a classic look just because she first wore it for Mistah J.  A little bit more done with the diamonds-- maybe a star or two for emphasis…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes her nanoseconds to fully develop and envision minion-suits for Noah, Waylon, Jake, and her other little pets.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could make 'em into a gang of Harleys, or something.  Hmm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, for whatever reason, she turns to look back.  She left her ex-Puddin's body lie, not wanting to give him the chance to become legend by evaporating into the night, no one certain of his death.  And yet… leaving his wrecked body there, strewn throughout the ruins of his cell…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, 'cause I </span>
  </em>
  <span>really </span>
  <em>
    <span>want to become like him, right?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley grumbles at herself.  Then, somehow, her face finds a paler shade to turn.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>… apparently I do.  Minion suits, Harley, really?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"That was dumb, Harley," she says softly. "You wasted years of your life on that ass.  He used you.  It's time to leave more than just him behind; it's time to leave his town behind, his life behind, and his ways.  Not the style, you rock that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe… the name?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She regards Kuttler, and whistles for Killer Croc.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a while, leaving Harley-- or Harleen-- time to stew over the decision.  "Yo, Waylon," she says to him in greeting.  "I want him packaged special.  You find anyone else on my list?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The slender body of her pet crocodilian behemoth shakes along with his head.  "No, Mistress Harley.  I think we have them all waiting in the tunnel that opens to the harbor.  The emergency escape submarines are still there."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There's that name again.  Everyone who knows me, 'cept my folks, knows me as Harley, an' they know her… me.. that way too.  Maybe I don't need quite so dramatic of a gesture?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a hindrance to Harley Quinn's relative freedom from Hunter urges and Drives; her ferocity can loop back on itself in a way rare to Hunters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hesitation isn't entirely an alien experience to a Hunter.  Despite their ferocity, having virtually unlimited time to consider and reconsider a planned decision can lead to doubts.  However, unless presented with truly new information, once the decision has been made, double-guessing is an unusual beast indeed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It comes from the same ferocity that drives them to mercilessly conquer and crush victim after victim, to violently clash over small issues and to enjoy it as much as sex.  Once committed, Hunters tear into their chosen tasks with relish, whether straight-up, direct action or subtle manipulations.  Harley has greater freedom from the Drives; so too does she have less security of choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods to her green-scaled, nicely-hung minion, and slaps him (carefully) on the ass.  "Good man."  She squeezes a bit, enjoying the feel of some tight-packed glutes, utterly putty in her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chuckling, she grabs the back of Waylon's scaley head and kisses him fiercely.  His fangs haven't the slightest chance of so much as getting a light scraping of cells from her tongue, so she just enjoys herself.  He's hesitant at first, unused to it still, but soon, he melts into her arms, as grateful for her attentions as her dominance over his bestial side.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And, hey, sure, he tried to eat me that first time at Arkham, but now he's turnin' out to be not so bad at eatin' me out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley breaks the kiss as soon as he has a nice, throbbing hardon, good and stiff and just short of drooling precum.  She wriggles her eyebrows, shifting her lewdly overponounced hips to smack the dark-pink deliciousness gently up and down.  "It's a nice leash for ya, Waylon," she giggles.  "But I got something better in mind."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The almost panicked longing on his face, lusting for her yet knowing he dare not step a toe out of line, is almost as delicious as the thrill of the dominance itself.  "Yes, mistress," he says, demurely bowing his head and blushing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckles, and pats Waylon on the ass again, nodding towards the Calculator.  "Pick 'im up and bring 'im.  He's not gonna be movin' any time soon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her "heavy" mook-- about as heavy a dude as she's likely to get-- bows again.  She doesn't need to stare in his direction to leer at his tight little heiny.  It's just more fun that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anyway, yer average post-apocalyptican don't really think about this much, but there's a reason other'n lootin' and pillagin' plus your general rapine ta break doors on people's houses.  Mindja, I'm glad I can scent well enough t' figure out </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span> it's gotta be done."  Waylon just stares at her cluelessly; which is fair enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From her point of view, she's talking about him, kinda.  She rambles a bit as she marches towards the open air compounds, periodically punching heavily reinforced, modern-day siege-prepared fortifications to powder, leaving a lot of wide, open spaces.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ain't nothin' here but that panic room t' keep someone from my 'sisters'.  Yeesh, like my brothers aren't bad enough.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought brings her family to mind, but the thread of her consciousness that has been paranoically watching Bensonhurst gives the rest of her the high-sign.  They haven't emerged from their cold war-era bunker, nor have any Hunters come sniffing.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I dunno why the guys knew to bring their fams and run, so I just gotta thank Jinkies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't take long enough for them to reach a small area, fenced-off inside the already fenced-off and barrier-divided yard.  "You stay here, Waylon, you'll scare 'em.  Speakin' of which…"</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>To his immediate terror and babbled attempts at placation, she grabs his face by the cheeks, pinching the joint between upper and lower lips on both sides and hauling down </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Nearly as harsh as the fire in her eyes.  Nearly as hard as her abruptly trebled Brooklyn accent, slamming into him and cutting his chatter..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I </span>
  <em>
    <span>evah</span>
  </em>
  <span> smell even a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whiffa</span>
  </em>
  <span> dog, cat, domestic slash non-food boid, pet mustelid, guinea pig, </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> otha kinda fur baby but ESPECIALLY Hyena on ya breath… I make myself a whole damn lotta croc-scale accessories.  Shoes, purses--" even the 'ur' comes off as an oi-- "</span>
  <em>
    <span>miniskirts and watchbands, the woiks, Waylon!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Teeth grinding together, eyes open wide with barely suppressed rage, she begins to curl the corners of his lips back and out, almost to the point of tearing.  "Do I make myself </span>
  <em>
    <span>cleah</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" she asks, letting go of his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snap of her fingers against his body alone sends "Killer" Croc stumbling back.  Only an instinctive whip of his tail keeps him from dropping the Calculator and himself to the ground.  He doesn't try to evade, which is good-- she's in the mood to agree with the part of her that says that a certain known-to-be-dog-eating mook would look a whole lot better without his fangs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, Mistress Harley, crystal clear, Mistress Harley, my beast obeys you always, Mistress Harley, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh Goddess please don't skin me!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slaps him, and immediately feels guilty.  Not for leaving a red handprint half across his mouth, nearly dislocating his jaw, and rattling his braincage-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ain't too much up there anyway--</span>
  </em>
  <span> but because of course, the crack of her hand lightly stroking over his cheek sounds like a gunshot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Poor things," Harley says with a sniffle, before skipping her jigglesome way over to the K-9 pen, leaving a terrified Croc to masturbate helplessly watching her.  "Heya, babies!  I promise, it's Auntie Harley!  I'm pretty sure I smelled alla your handlers skedaddle, you'd think the least they could do was take care of this…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley grabs the chain holding the gate closed, and is about to crush it into powder, when she gets an idea.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pity Waylon can't see through people, too.  I'd love to see how he likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>this</span>
  <em>
    <span> smile…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So she reaches over and just carefully pinches the padlock at the top, instantly turning the thick stainless steel into so much powder.  There's another whine from inside the mini-yard, tugging on her heartstrings.  Fortunately, the Pulse played favorites.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C'mon babies," she sort-of coos as she opens the fences, "Everyone come on outta there.  I wanna see if this works on ya."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley not only can see all the books in all the libraries within her vastly increased sensorium range, she can read them, comprehend them, and put them to work instantly.  Her voice becomes calm, even, and pitched exactly right to soothe while still carrying a range of firm command.  Of course, the dogs can smell the ultra-predator in her, mixed with traces of her lost humanity and the woman who liked to sneak treats to them both coming and going from Arkham.  It helps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twelve pointy and eight not-so-pointy faces with glittering black eyes and the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>frickin' gorgeous</span>
  </em>
  <span> fur coloration she ever did see come out of their kennels.  She spends a moment cooing over them and making further soothing nonsense sounds before wrapping the chain over one shoulder and pushing back the gates.  As she lightly reaches into the same… whatever… that let her dominate Waylon's beast so utterly, they turn as one to follow her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In moments, their stiff, still bodies become more relaxed.  Some pant; some just drool.  There's a lot of blinking, too, and a few of them sneeze at her, but even when she snaps the hinges off a few more gates-- wouldn't want them wedging closed-- none of Arkham's cutie K-9 crew even so much as whine unhappily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once she's sure they all have easy access to and from their kennels, she takes the gates and pressure-welds them carefully with her thumb and forefinger.  It's a bit makeshift, but there's enough solid, anti-ballistic barrier material to make for a little better shelter from the elements up top.  That gets a couple of yelps and nervous whines, but mostly, her radiant presence holds them all calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For just a while, in Harley's presence, she welds </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.  Into a tighter pack; doggie rivalries forgotten and everyone just a bit more smooth in their relationships to one another.  The same preternatural team-building and synergistic skills that a large number of her most brutal sisters are using to create </span>
  <em>
    <span>tribes</span>
  </em>
  <span> of mankillers out there in the night, Harley… uses to make well-loved working dogs better at protecting, feeding, and helping each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kneels among them, massive and muscly, her hands reaching out to them.  One by one, they come up to her to get a hug, circling around her to pay attention.  She can't make them people; she can't make them super-geniuses, and honestly, she wouldn't want to, given the way the world will turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they understand… more or less.  "Auntie Harley has to go away for a while.  An' I don't know if your people--"  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are still alive, but you guys don't need to know that--</span>
  </em>
  <span> "Will be able to come back for ya.  So listen t'me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dogs can understand more than most people think, but less than their people parents generally assume.  Harley's nonetheless able to get them to understand where she punched holes into the kitchens and their own food supplies-- and because she is a Hunter, to make them understand that gorging themselves sick or portly will get (insanely gentle) nose thwappings.  And a disappointed Auntie Harley, which they fear more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she leaves them with orders to leave if the den becomes unsafe or the food is starting to run out; leaves them with a sense of the larger Gotham and ways to the Wayne Wilderness Preserve that no unmodified canine should be able to tell on their own.  The Pulse plays favorites-- So do its children.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She also leaves the pack with promises to take them and their handlers-- both pets to her, so why not?-- if they haven't found new homes since.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So I'll be back if I can.  If your people find you, try t'keep them underground if possible; I'll come to collect you all when I gotta new place.  Be good, babies.  Be </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, babies, please!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're not her hyenas-- those, she's going to be nabbing immediately when she leaves town and a thread of herself is watching nearly as paranoically as she does her human family.  But she loves them as easily as she breathes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And I'm sure as fuck not gonna leave them penned in after th'end of the fuckin' world!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It's hard for her to leave them; it takes several more hugs (per doggy) before she feels like she can.  Plus it gets her scent all over them, which might actually keep a fellow Hunter from squishing them out of hand, you never know.  With tearful waves, she grabs one of the unused heavy breed martingale collars and leashes, then bounces back over to the confused Croc.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Awright, so, here's the plan, minion mine," she tells Waylon as she first fuses the chain to his collar, then fits the martingale collar onto Kuttler's still-sleeping body.  "I think we're about done here.  I'mma check the city out once.  You remember where we're meeting up if you get separated from me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes mistress," the slender behemoth agrees, red eyes staring at her with adoration and fear all the same in his bound body and bound mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Set the sub with the others for northward bound and down; that map in Bane's old stash shows a cave complex that should hide 'em until I gotta new place."  Harley smirks.  "Then bring yerself an' Kuttler back t'me.  I'll walk ya to the gate."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Still looking after strays, Harls?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of nowhere, a voice; a puff of an achingly familiar scent.  One Harley had been hoping so badly to taste on the air it brings tears of joy to eyes and a rush of electric pleasure to her clit.  One Harley had been hoping so badly she'd never taste again that it wrenches her stomach just as hard.</span>
</p><h2>
  <span>---</span>
</h2><p>
  <span>"Sorry about that, my prettiful petunia," Harley says softly, and kisses Ivy's head.  "But I hadn't seen ya so far t'night, which meant either you were safe in th' Green or you'd… been got."  The hugely muscled mega-amazon shudders, which does such gorgeous things to Harley's big, bouncing breasts and lovely, rugged shoulders that Ivy takes several seconds to respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verbally anyway.  Forgiveness and adoration flood across the bond to Harley, and Ivy's fingers stroke over the taller woman's strong jawline.  Eventually, she leans up towards her mistress and plants a short, sweet kiss, green to red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley closes her eyes and swoops the bulging thickness of her forearms across Ivy's back.  The swift, warm motion settles the heavily built woman's elbows around Ivy's oak-hard obliques and rubbing her palms possessively over the rugged expanse of her traps.  The Hunter's strong fingers rub into muscle hard enough to hold up more than the sky like it was as pliant as Ivy's breasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Ivy moans, squirming her ass around squishily atop Harley's power-packed quads.  She breaks the kiss with an almost sinfully proud smirk.  "I love you, my sweet sycamore.  Whatever name you choose to go by, I will proudly be your herald and bitch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's half-smile is full of ambivalence, but not to Ivy; simply to herself.  Ivy pets her fingertips lightly over the curves of the smile, teasing the other lips up as she goes.  "And I do not begrudge you never wanting to see me in another's garden."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her own salacious grin turns wry.  "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> begrudge you trying to lock me out of your bedchamber and play keepaway with my collar!"  She curls her ripped torso back from Harley, pulling her fingers back as will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Harley's ever-obscene tender regard, Ivy makes a little, "Ooh," noise, and strokes the tips of her fingers from the half-dollar wide tops of her nipples, up along the rolling green slopes of her broad breasts, and thence over the rough power of her upper pectorals.  She doesn't stop stroking her fingers until she reaches Harley's emblem, forever embedded in a forever collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Ivy winks.  "I forgive it all.  And I forgive any future churlish desires to see me safe, free, and happy."  She taps her savage Hunter-love's nose lightly.  "Boop.  Now get back to storytime… Mistress."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gotcha… concubine."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The loop of time draws closer to the present-- and our tale draws closer to the end.  Into the life of the unbelievably brawny and unbelievably curvy Harley Quinn slinks the unbelievably voluptuous, improbably sinuous, and still rather ripped Poison Ivy-- a face from before not just the Pulse...</p><p>But before the Ace Chemicals vat, too.</p><p>It still pulls her multiplicitous mind  into conflict.  Part of her wants her Pammie to be safe.  Part of her wants to keep her Ivy close-- and safe.  But part of her...</p><p>Wants to keep her Red close for the feeding.  It doesn't help that her entire body screams not just sex, but HARLEY, FUCK ME!</p><p>Harley herself-- Harley as her perfection...</p><p>For Ivy, who should have been her Pride.  The sin of Jason Woodrue, his betrayal, has lasting consequences that can and does sting both Poison Ivy, and the Hunter consensus and communion she should have been a tentpole for.</p><p>But that can't be helped-- without talking.  Without pouring open both their pasts and both their intentions.</p><p>To see whether or not both can have a future, together.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The voice that reached out from Harley's past was impossible-- for any number of reasons.  Impossible for Harley to protect, impossible for Harley to resist, and-- were it not for the rest of her senses filling in-- impossible for her to believe.  Because it should </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been possible for anyone not a Hunter to sneak up on Harley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But her sight goes everywhere; even through the strangely resistant and utterly delicious shape behind her.  So she can see, and know, and weep, deep, locked deep within her incredibly powerful body.  This is indeed Poison Ivy, Harley's best and dearest friend, long-term open relationship romantic partner-- and she is not a Hunter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's back is to Ivy, and it's not just Harley's exquisitely jiggly bubble butt that's giving her… friend… reason to whisper, "Mmm," as she waits for Harley's response.  Nope, that rear view of her rear is impressive, and Harley knows it-- despite her mixed feelings, she gives her huge, rough-hewn glutes a good set of rolling squeezes that make for a lovely standing twerk in greetings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just standing there, her powerful shoulders lifting in surprise-- and mostly joy-- shows off a gorgeous freaking trapezius in all its broad, rippling hardness, not to mention the trap-tertiaries outlining it beautifully; the lats, the delts, the total package that is Harley Quinn from a back view.  And Harley, to her surprise, wants desperately to show off-- she slides one foot forward, squeezing the quads and calves and pumping her ass some more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention scooting said delicious duff around a bit, arching her back, and flashing a double-bicep guns show above.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's like the new bod really wants her to like me…  And doesn't think I should be commanding it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not that I'm not glad, but...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hmmm," purrs Ivy.  "Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's strong face screws into a goofy grin as that torch-singer smoothness rolls over her.  Ivy's voice is breathy and full, a little deeper than she remembers, but unmistakable.  Tasty as a fresh honeycrisp apple, though it can be sharp as a thorn, just those four words make her smile brightly despite her conflicting feelings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's her scent that she just wants to wrap around her shoulders like a warm, comfy blanket.  She swallows heavily, and turns to face Ivy, tongue flicking and pillow breasts heaving as she sucks in air-- air smelling of her dear friend and, yes, beloved.  "Heya, Red.  Didn't expect ta see ya so… soon."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or at all…  Oh, Pammie, I wanted you safe!  </span>
  </em>
  <span>But she refuses to let Ivy see her tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent of Poison Ivy has always been wondrous.  To humans she was tantalizing, always carrying a faintly rose-like aroma with a tangy hint of something far more exciting.  Subtle to even the most refined nose at first, the build-up of its fruity sweetness packs quite a wallop-- even if it doesn't carry a further biochemical load.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was before she became a giant of the Green.  When she still had to stir botanical transmutation out of beakers and alembics.  Once she made the jump, the taste of her on the air was like a finger crooked directly at the minds of those around her-- especially men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Harley, at first, it was just kind of sweet.  Over their long friendship, through the acrimonious times and the adoring alike, it grew on her.  First making her mouth water, and then…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Ivy smelled of home and comfort.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hell, even when I was so badly Jokered I thought the whole world was tryin' to tear me down, I knew I was safe when I smelled her.  Who would fuck with me when Red was around?  Even Bats treaded carefully when the two of us painted the town.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, as a Hunter, Harley's senses can dissect not only the chemical nature of that wonderful scent down to the atomic, she can </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> the atoms, and hear them bounce off each other.  For so much of her new life, it's made the world disappointing, re[ulsive, or contemptible.  But not only does Ivy's scent make Harley relax…  Every new piece of information delights Harley more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The skill at which that scent was made makes her smile.  Made, definitely, the apex of Ivy's skills showing an astonishingly deft hand and mind even on a Hunter level.  And there's not a single untoward pheromone in the mix-- other than the ones that signal "Yep, ready to </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now</span>
  </em>
  <span>," or in Ivy's own words, the biochemical versions of, "Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello there,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they are made for her, too.  It's not just the pouty red lips and the intense green eyes that signal Ivy's interest in Harley and Harley alone.  Harley doesn't quite have the words yet-- she's working on developing biochemical and genetic theory from scratch and observation still-- but there's something about every molecule, let alone their interactions that screams, "I LOVE YOU, HARLS!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're artistic in so many ways.  Beautiful to look at with the living electron microscope she calls vision; efficiently created-- Harley can see the modification to Ivy's skin glands, not to mention her pretty green pussy, quite well, thank you very much-- Ivy's scent gives Harley a fresh delight in that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> delightful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the memories it evokes-- oh, the memories.  Nothing Harley could ever remember before the Pulse will ever be forgotten now, and as ever, smell is the strongest connector, trigger, and aspect of her old human memories.  Her insanely powerful sight seems likely to dominate new experiences, or at least compete, but for now, Ivy's tastiness makes Harley love her all the more for the memories it evokes, sweet and bittersweet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as glorious as it is, the rapture that is Poison Ivy's sweet scent presence is just the beginning.  Because Harley's sight has become so terrifyingly dominant it's like a mini-Hunter inside her own head.  And in sight, Poison Ivy is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gorgeous</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She always has been, though something has changed-- well, a lot has changed.  And for once, Harley doesn't understand, just looking at her.  Quite aside from how she appeared from nowhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hundreds of Harley's independent, compartmentalized thought-threads are full of the sinuous and unexpected sight of Poison Ivy.  Of course they are-- she fascinated Harley before, and this new Pammie is even more fascinating.  Positively unique, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there are three main conceptual threads that inform her as she slowly lets her direct gaze sweep over the red-headed alchemist of the plant kingdom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>New Body, Not One Of Us, and Perfection.  The second and third don't go together very much, in Harley's suddenly expanded experience.  But Red, as ever-- she works it good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>New Body.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yup-- and what a bod it is!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  This is definitely her Pammie-- if nothing else, the extra boom and oomph in that figure are barely greater than last Harley saw Ivy, four and a half months back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Poison Ivy has always been as visually beautiful as her scent is seductive.  Much of which comes from an hourglass figure overlaid onto a graceful dancer-gymnast's toned core, making her very silhouette sensual without looking like she'd break in half in a stiff breeze.  The overlay remains, as well as the one point six-eight meters, a bit above average but the core…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looks a little like her fellow mega-muscled babes in miniature, Harley has to admit.  Her long, extravagant red hair flows down to her mouth-watering teardrop ass.  It rustles in the slight wind all the more for the rose vines threaded through the strands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face is much the same, her deep lime green skin over high cheekbones and slightly elfin, angular features unchanged.  Her irises are a dark, forest moss; her lips so bright green they look like lipstick.  Her lips have that Angelina Jolie fullness that looks like they're perpetually in a kiss, though Harley can also see the otherwise nigh-invisible extra vessels and vesicles that turn the lips themselves into glands for an incredibly complex internal biochemical lab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The left side of her smile is quirked like her bright red left eyebrow; her head is tilted down to the right and her neck shifted left along with her now amazingly broad shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's shoulders were never precisely slender, except in comparison to her fantabulous hips.  Like her nineteen-thirties predecessors, Ivy had enough across the top to make every roll of her shoulders long and languid, suggesting all forms of undulations-- horizontal as well as vertical.  But now, she's proportionally bigger than the nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>two feet taller</span>
  </em>
  <span> Waylon Jones!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Not by much, but Harley can see down to the very cells; she can be </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain</span>
  </em>
  <span>.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're still snaking and graceful of form, only now her fit, firm delts lead down to some serious python-plus upper arms.  Slender and willowy to Harley, each one looks as big and crisply developed as some bodybuilders work their entire lives to produce in a most muscular pose.  Nonetheless, there is a clear fluidity to them; not quite a Hunter's alien, fractal perfection, but just held still they suggest curling, curvy gestures, ready to roll out in come-hither gestures at a moment's notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, her left arm is bent at the elbow but her left hand turned outwards, fingers resting on the succulent plushness of her ever-blooming hips.  There's a platonic callipygian idealness to those hips that Harley realizes with a shock is a match for her own, in smaller form.  The fluid brawn of her right arm is hanging loose, but her hips are so dramatically wide that her palm rests on the matching hip anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chest already voluptuous has sprouted out to G-cup, literally.  Ivy's body is bedecked in only leaves that take the form of a sort of one-piece swimsuit, coyly planting leaves down to barely cover her groin.  The dark green forming a bustier that barely conceals her areolae in the front, plunging down to the sides and under her arms following the lines of the lats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't at all cover either big, bootylicious hip, thought the back is concealed with much more tease, a single large leaf covering from the waist down, over most of each squishy globe and the crack.  Nor does it cover the pumped, crinkled-edged tops of her pecs, so far as they rise above the tops of her lush tits.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ain't like I can't see the pretty petals, nommy nipples, sweet abs, or any of th' rest, anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lime green legs are quite bare, the right up on its toe just a bit forward of the left.  Not quite flexing, not quite relaxed showing off impressive quadriceps in front and sturdy hamstrings behind, all of it in that curvaceous style somewhat tautologically called leggy.  While she doesn't have Hunter tertiaries or sculpting below, her muscular calves don't detract from the overall shape despite pushing out past the lines of her shin-- much like Harley's, in fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And such cute frickin' toesies I just wanna grab her by one and…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley is rapidly having to deal with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fourth</span>
  </em>
  <span> thread… how much she wants to rape her best and beloved Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pin 'er up against the wall just need one hand for those wrists the other ta force them thighs apart and past the leaves have her screaming my name in seconds/sweep her off her feet an' lie her down like a tablecloth see if she likes how I taste she'd better/turn her over my thigh an' spank her ass 'til it matches the carpet </span>
  </em>
  <span>and</span>
  <em>
    <span> the drapes then fist that gorgeous pussy good/make her show off her puny little muscles then flex at her until she cums like the bitch she is my bitch my bitch MINE!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever Harley may occasionally lose to indecisiveness, she is far, far more than grateful for her ability to displace her Hungers into a dark, tastefully candle-lit portion of her mind.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can't keep her!  I can't keep her here-- she's gotta go back!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Determination stronger than steel-- stronger than stone, stronger than Harley's whole mega-muscular frame-- flares in Harley.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I gotta send her home.  No matter how much I love her, no matter how much I need her… I gotta send her back to the Green.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can't keep her safe.  Not from other babes </span>
  </em>
  <span>like</span>
  <em>
    <span> me, not from me.  She's not like me... Jinkies wept, she's not as strong as me!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not one of us; not one of the Pulse's daughters:  The worst and saddest thread.  Whatever else her old friend has become-- appearing out of, what, a puff of the Green?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can she do that now?--</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy is not Harley's equal and can never be.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But should have been.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The icy cold thought strikes her.  She can see Ivy's hybrid cells; the way her dear friend licks her lips and squirms to better show off her excessively lavish tits, Harley thinks she might be able to tell when Harley is paying </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span> attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's nearly enough of it left.  Between Woodrue's genetic and cellular butchery and a far more elegant, repairing hand lately, the same DNA strings that Harley and all other Hunters have can be found in Ivy… just not in the same </span>
  <em>
    <span>amount</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Not enough to trigger the transformation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's something else about her; it's not hard for Harley to tell that being a Hunter is a mystic inheritance as much as a biological one.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I bet if I traced Ivy's family tree back, it'd cross in t' the important ones in mine at at least as many spots as any other babe with the power.  But she's all mixed up in that "Green" stuff!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A nasty, dark part of Harley that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> permitted into the tastefully candlelit, leather straps and glittering chains await section of her mind but nonetheless suppressed wonders briefly what would happen to Ivy if Harley destroyed every plant on the planet.  Would she ascend, separated from the hindering taint?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't fucking matter 'cos she'd kill me for even startin' the planning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> part firmly gets the boot, going down with her memories of a root canal, getting mono in high school despite never having kissed </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and shaving Mistah J's butt.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She should have been like me.  We shoulda been gal pals forever like them doubles and triples and what have you.  SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY WIFE!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, Harley manages not to howl it to the moon-- or worse, to Ivy.  But somehow too, her should-have-been bondmate seems to know the sadness in her much larger friend.  Her arm moves with the elegant snaking that its shape promised, towards Harley's face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley bows her head towards the graceful fingertips, and Ivy caresses Harley's cheek so tenderly it heals much of the pain.  It almost seems unjust it doesn't break her heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aw, Red," she whispers in wonderment.  "Where'd you spring from?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Plant heaven, of course," Ivy replies wryly, green eyes twinkling and cute little nose wrinkling.  "Don't you know the corny line?" she asks, pulling her hands back to spiral her hands at first to her deliciously fat, gravity-defying Gs.  Then her shoulders shimmy into the motion, and her arms twist and curl outwards, palms up and fingers pointing away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since the motion also flexes her nicely developed pecs and sends her big rack bouncing, it's pretty clear she's pointing attention back at herself anyway.  And in the core of her lies the mystery of Harley's third Poison Ivy Pondering.  Her perfection, near enough to Harley's own-- and somehow clearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley sees something Ivy-- the should-have-been life's faint echos lead her there.  Strong arms but a wicked smile, glittering eyes full of understanding, wisdom, and a deeply personal connection.  Delicious hips that-- if scaled up, just enough, would fit Harley's hands perfectly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She woulda been just a bit smaller'n'me, her head always ready to rest against my cheek or shoulder…  I was always going to be faster, her bodyguard, but she was supposed to be so strong I couldn't get away once I was in her arms.  Her eyes would see what mine would miss, her mind the organized and forward-forceful compliment to my whimsy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Jinkies… Why have you forsaken her?  She should have been my wife...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But her Pammie is not just echoes and might-have-beens, laid over a body that cannot withstand Harley's true lusts, let alone her loving embrace.  There's something more.  A new growth, a new shaping, cultivated by a hand more subtle than even Harley can see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wicked smile may not promise a wild wit that drives Harley to distraction and then commands her to ecstasy.  But it remains, and with the brightness in her eyes and the power of her connection to the Green, Harley can see that the powerful intellect and earthy wisdom remain.  More limited in some respects-- yet roots run deep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while her body might not be able to withstand Harley's lusts (or her sister Hunter's enmity) </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there is potential in her, some seed that Harley cannot understand how to plant, let alone to cultivate.  A promise that with time, the Green, and some waiting catalyst… Perhaps Harley can hug her one day without holding back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's not the mind or the body that wilts Harley's determination to send her dear Ivy away.  The resolution isn't dead, but it weakens on the sheer </span>
  <em>
    <span>smugness</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Poison Ivy's body language, her teasing words, and deliberate, </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing</span>
  </em>
  <span> enticement.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She is still unafraid.  But it's not ignorance.  She knows what I am and she isn't afraid.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or she thinks she knows.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's not merely the personal and sexual confidence that Poison Ivy exudes to Harley.  What she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is painfully foggier than what she should have been.  But Harley knows without knowing how that her Pammie loves her, not like some distant goddess brought to earth, but like a superhero's girlfriend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought distracts.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mm.  I'd love ta have Big Blue all t'myself… an' share only </span>
  </em>
  <span>some</span>
  <em>
    <span> of what my Hungry-bits want.  I'd be a lot better to him than most of the gals smackin' him around right now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I really want to see what he looks like in a tight little red-and-black thong, but that ain't gonna happen.  The ladies goin' after him are scary business.</span>
  </em>
  
  <em>
    <span>Ebon Widowmakers and full-on old Hunters writ large, if nothing else.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley shudders.  Like most female members of the tights-and-brights crew, she's spent time doing Ebon Widowmaker whacking duty.  The things you never tell the guys because they always want to come in and "fix" things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head, letting the detritus of the past vanish.  Whether deliberately called by the psychotic gynarchs, or simply a lucky guess, the changed Earth has, to all appearances, changed to the Imperial Mourning Triumphant those crazy chicks always used to rant about.  Her reality is what it is…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Superman's being renamed Not-So-Big Black and Blue all over the globe.  Her inner psychiatrist notes how easily she dismisses caring about him-- or any other man not claimed personally.  Her inner Harley shrugs; she firmly holds to a more hopeful perspective:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She does now care about Waylon Jones and Noah Kuttler, just a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's something.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it enough to keep Ivy safe from me, though?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Distraction, assessment, evaluation, and return happen faster than her sweet petunia could possibly notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But not faster than she should notice.</span>
  </em>
  <span> To Harley's far-faster mind, Ivy is a statue, sculpted by a horny artist but a talented one, the tender obscenity of her offered body screamed in every frozen curve.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>They'll come for her, other muscle mavens.  She's so beautiful…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It tears at Harley's heart, and she can't say goodbye without a kiss.  So she slows down her mind and speeds up her experiential perspective.  The pale, brawny giantess reaches over for Poison Ivy, and the thrilled look that passes over the latter's face almost kills Harley's heart, let alone her revolution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huge hands run over the elfin features that should have grown stronger and broader, thumbs reaching deep into Ivy's rose-strewn hair even with her pinkies below her green jaw.  Harley kisses her full, fair lips, but when Ivy teases her tongue at Harley's lips and lingually offers more, Harley breaks the kiss.  Her strong, pale fingers caress over Ivy's beautiful face, and every muscular on Harley's burly, behemoth body trembles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While tears run down the Hunter's cheek.  "Then ya gotta go back, Red!"  Her microcontrol is sufficient to stroke a nerve just the way she wishes, her muscles so pliant to her commands that she can just flex part of them.  But she can't stop a sob from scything up from her belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brief confusion and pain in Ivy's eyes makes Harley wish she could be weak.  "What--" she asks, voice all the stronger and more seductive in the mournful tones.  "Harley, I don't understand--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>gotta</span>
  </em>
  <span> go back to Plant Heaven, Ivy!" Harley says.  "I don't know how ya fell back to non-Plant… earth… or grew up form Plant Heaven, but I can't </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect </span>
  </em>
  <span>you!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Ivy can say a word, Harley splays her huge hands wide, fingers reaching all around Ivy's head.  Kneeling-- she has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kneel</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be on an even level with the woman who should have been her mate-- she slowly pulls Ivy as close and dear as their chesty fronts will allow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Harley's height and pectoral control letting her angle right, she manages to plant her pale forehead against Ivy's green, still crying.  "Not from them…"  She tenses her hands, careful not to apply any pressure to Ivy's skull but making her already giant, macelike forearms jump out and her powerful biceps move towards their peak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And not from me."  Her fingers run through Ivy's hair, vibrating from the power yanking on all those tendons and that sinew, huge grooves and bulges dancing over both arms as Harley strokes into Ivy's wild, wavy hair.  Her fingers touch a rose…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ivy's groaned, "Oooh!" hammers at her resolve again.  As powerful as she is, Harley is caught.  She wants to keep Ivy safe… and she knows there is no safety for a non-Hunter on the face of the changed Earth.  Not this night or any other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>("Yes, Pammie, I know, I shoulda just asked ya.  Ya do know the Hunterin' makes that bit hard, right?  Right.")</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But while Harley freezes up, Ivy's oaklike strength and confidence is renewed afresh.  She tilts her head to the left, wraps her heavily-developed and elegantly defined arms delicately around Harley's neck and plants one </span>
  <em>
    <span>heck</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a kiss.  This time, her tongue presses firmly past Harley's lips and Harley can't find the strength to keep her mouth closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing one foot off the ground, Ivy leans into the smooch, aggressively tonguing around in the bigger woman's mouth.  Soon enough, Harley's instincts take over and Ivy's will… triumphs.  Ivy's arms are swiftly dwarfed by the giant swells and prominences of Harley's limbs, laid down to her shoulder, and Harley's tongue moves firmly along Ivy's into Ivy's waiting sweetness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kiss builds between the two, Harley's huge nipples prodding into the softer, smaller breasts of her planty lover.  The half-dollar thick pair on Ivy's green titties don't have Hunter forcefulness, but no matter.  Harley's pussy reacts instantly, gushing like that seemingly undifferentiated patch of breastflesh was as nerve-laden and pleasure-tuned as her clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pair moan into the kiss, and Harley breaks it before her will weakens far enough that she really does just fist Ivy until her mind breaks and she drools out Harley's name unceasingly.  The haughtiness in Ivy's body is undiminished by Harley taking over the kiss.  If anything, she nods firmly, as though her point was made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There, that's settled."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ain't!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  Poison Ivy stamps her foot back onto the ground, making their squishily docked knockers jiggle and bounce about so wildly Harley's Hunter vision actually goes a little indistinct. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Listen to me.  I know what I'm getting into-- tongue deep in that perfectly pretty pussy of yours if I'm lucky-- "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ivy!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Or yours into mine, I'm fine with some reciprocity but I really do have </span>
  <em>
    <span>such</span>
  </em>
  <span> plans for that pretty pink of yours."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley whines.  She knows she's whining, she knows her dignity as a new titan of the changed Earth should forbid it.  "But you're gonna get </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  She pouts, then shudders, abruptly nauseated.  "Maybe by me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nonsense," Ivy sniffs, and abruptly ducks around Harley's solid midsection, looping her amazonian arm inside Harley's giant limb, like she was waiting for Harley to lead her into a fancy restaurant and not, you know, Harley bare-ass naked in the abandoned asylum yard, and Ivy wearing no more than leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't think that's gonna fly for dress codes, but… if I do keep her… I… Jinkies, even for an hour or so, I ain't lettin' anyone tell </span>
  </em>
  <span>either</span>
  <em>
    <span> of us what to wear.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy scoots her ass closer to Harley's side and rubs her fecund hip up against Harley's super-shredded thigh.  Licking her lips, she flexes and swings her ludicrously shapely rump back and forth back and with anticipation.  In fact, she grinds it up against Harley's leg not so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>suggestively</span>
  </em>
  <span> as </span>
  <em>
    <span>demandingly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>"C'mon, Harls.  Why don't you take me to that all-night diner you kept telling me about last time?  Either they're open… Or you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>them open."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"So here we are, my love."</p><p>It's something of an understatement.  The work of millennia; of immortals and martial-arts, of metahumans and vengeful legacies, of alien chloromorphs and extremely evil clowns-- it's been a bumpy ride.  But now the Pulse has burnt the old world away.</p><p>And all debts have come due.  What was taken from Poison Ivy-- and by extension, Harleen and their future Pridemates-- cannot be returned.  But the debt can be paid.</p><p>So she is becoming something far, far more than a champion of the Green alone.  Herald and concubine, she is transforming into a psychopomp of sorts, a gate-opener to the spiritual in a world where the vast majority of sane-ish mystics are dead by their own hands.  Sacrificed to create the world they sought to ward against.</p><p>That said, she wants to have fun with her mistress and wife, and so she intends to see her Harls cum until the dawn comes.  But first, her beloved made a promise.  Hunters keep those.</p><p>To tan that ass the same hue as her glorious scarlet hair.  Fortunately, that sort of play is what the Green remade its Herald to enjoy quite thoroughly.  It's inspiring, even.</p><p>A fit final passage on her pussy pilgrimage.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"So here we are, my love," Poison Ivy says softly.  It's something of an understatement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Millennia of unthinking terror have given rise to the Hunters.  Years of reciprocated empathy and concern have forged deep love and mutual respect between Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn.  And now the Pulse has forever made </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ivy</span>
  </em>
  <span> a sidekick to Harley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Harley knows what it's like to be a mistreated sidekick at the Joker's hands, and she knows how well Ivy cared for her when Harley sheltered beneath her branches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The power of the Green-- and more importantly, the phenomenal energies of Earth's Titan Massmind-- have formed a vine bridge between them.  Interconnection, a narrow pathway over an abyss that should never have been.  Jason Woodrue's handiwork.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the Earth has always ways of rewarding those who serve it faithfully and fully.  As the Earth has become both her and him and them, the Massmind not only formed a bridge with which to let Ivy come to Harley, but for Harley to cross back over and help Ivy to grow strong.  To nurture one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy still feels some doubts.  It's a bitter pill, to see strength and ferocity become the inheritance of the new queens, of whom she should be one.  She's back in the lab again, mixing desperate secrets and seductive, smoky ways of influencing without taking the reins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley feels her bitterness, and caresses her cheek, long fingers trailing over smooth green flesh.  "Ain't gonna point out you got some reins-- not ta mention guns," the big woman says, other arm coming up to run an admiring hand over Ivy's taut, tightly-packed tricep.  The tenseness of Ivy's posture makes the long muscle and its intricately developed hardness stand out beautifully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light touch, not just light-for-a-Hunter but so soft that Harley's fingers barely touch Ivy's skin.  Regardless, the stimulation is electric, making Ivy's dark green nipples stand out stiffer and her sweeping hips wriggle and bounce with shuddering pleasure.  "I-- I--"  Ivy gasps as the lightness lays down Harley's pleasuring claim across her skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got </span>
  <em>
    <span>reins</span>
  </em>
  <span>, love," Harley insists.  "And you'll use them if I get more galpals-- they can't be mine if they won't feel your strength."  Now the touches are growing firmer, Harley's palms spread wide to capture more of the crisp grooves and broad, rugged bulges under abruptly tingling green skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it so wrong that you're still Poison Ivy, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>ripped</span>
  </em>
  <span> Poison Ivy?" she asks softly, going right to the heart of the matter between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I-- mm!"  Ivy gasps again, rolling and shivering her well-muscled and lushly-curved body around.  Jiggle after jiggle follows the moans-- but so does flex after flex.  "You won't just make me some kitchen garden plant, will you," she says with a happy sigh.  "But I suppose I knew that from the start."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy closes her eyes.  It's not just strength and toughness that bonding with Harley has given her.  Nor is the otherwise </span>
  <em>
    <span>unthinkable</span>
  </em>
  <span> ability to create biochemical cocktails that work on Hunters; a gift of the Massmind's hard, omnipresent hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hands.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Even with her eyes closed, she feels more than just the touch of fingers on her slightly angular jawline and ripped upper arms.  She's got Harley's universal sense of the world-- including Harley's hands-- but Ivy is starting to get data that is independent of Harley's generously open sensory communion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know I won't," Harley reminds her.  "Or we wouldn't be here."  The love and lust that communicates between the naked women pulses larger and larger, but Harley is ignoring the heat that sends Ivy shimmying and shaking with wild abandon.  Just touching, just caressing…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But always claiming.  And as Harley claims more of Ivy, Ivy blossoms in more than just burliness.  Blooms more than just the red spreading from Ivy's cheek and down her throat, a rush of blood matched by that to her pulsing clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Harley's hand moves, it interferes with light and heat and even the sound of their breathing.  Their heartbeats.  Bit by bit, while Harley traces the outline of face and muscle, Ivy is tracing her sweet Peanut's hands-- and by extension, the even more mighty muscle that rolls and swells over Harley's broad-built frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's so hard to separate out her own sense-data from Harley's.  Ivy doesn't bother to try.  Harley's light and nourishment draw Ivy in Harley's direction; she just learns about herself within the flow of data and affection.  Firm gropes that squeeze Ivy's supposedly super-powerful upper arm like a succulent's leaf.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And when she massages my arm, I suppose I exude moisture quite well.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy's pussy is quite enjoying having her mistress' hands all over her.  Harley's touches explore Ivy's body, caressing the thick secondary layer atop her bicep now, the reinforcement and protection of the powerful peak within.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's breathing is light as she explores Ivy's body, little happy groans as she sees more strength on her beloved pet's body.  Even the grasping, Hungry side of her-- the side that still wants to recolor Ivy's ass-- is in full accordance with Harley's, "Aw, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Red, you got the </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuff!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  After all, it makes Ivy's body able to endure all the more of Harley's attentions and Harley's needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though it's not Ivy's body that's undergoing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> exotic transformation-- and multiplication.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's her mind that's undergoing the biggest changes.  Yes, she was able to withstand the sudden influx of sensory data from </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> around her-- or more accurately, everything around Harley-- since it is in some ways but an increase in scale over having every blade of grass and every tree whisper to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a lot more detail, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it always came in with the limits of plant life-- not as insensate as </span>
  <em>
    <span>humans</span>
  </em>
  <span> think they are, but hardly the sophisticated sensory array of even the simplest vertebrate.  What came into her with Harley's love, Harley's oaths, and Harley's power was </span>
  <em>
    <span>detail</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Full, vast mentality-groups, consuming countless amounts of data and integrating it all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To a Hunter, Ivy's tense posture carries information in the strength of her skin, the frequency of oscillation where taut green over incredibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>built</span>
  </em>
  <span>, impossibly tough muscle makes it vibrate, the chemical signals, that tactile data, the chemical composition…  Then the information is contextualized-- with every other part of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And for Harley and her sisters-- my cousins, I suppose-- all of that information isn't so much available as omnipresent.  If she wanted to set a modelling program to create the polygons to draw me, she wouldn't have to "look up" the equations and data somewhere-- it would just be there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So that is the "stuff" Harley sees; that and the strength in her beloved.  Ivy feels Harley's lips on her forehead; her fingers and palms squeezing over the projections of powerful muscles, packed and compacted into each other-- circling back around from Ivy's quiescent bicep, still jug-big despite being this close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And their fleshy-perky jugs, far more than a gallon to each, squish together in the closeness.  Fresh waves of sensation slam through both women, fresh gushes from freshly aroused slits follow.  Throughout it all, Harley continues to take it all in; curling her finger around Ivy's tricep gives her all the information about potential energy, potential output, cells, her organs…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In each moment, Harley freshly senses and comprehends </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything </span>
  </em>
  <span>that makes Ivy a floral amazon writ large, broad and elegant if sadly kept to a "merely" just under two meters tall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Compared to that, Ivy's ability to control enormous amounts of plant life at once, including independent subgroups, was merely a seed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes open, and green irises stare into blue.  "My love!" Ivy gasps, her mind and senses suddenly caught between their own expansion and piggybacking Harley's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can do it, Red," Harley says softly.  "More than a potted plant, remember?  Show me.  Show me where your roots grow into shadowed places."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The enormous muscle-giantess smirks.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Then</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell me if ya feel like just a veggie spider, makin' green cobwebs in my dusty corners."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poison Ivy can't, because it would be a lie.  Now… now her skin registers more than light and dark, heat and cold.  Now her body doesn't just feel sounds-- more or less- as vibration; it's starting to be able to translate that vibration into </span>
  <em>
    <span>information</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both into what the sound should be, and the distances and densities of objects it encountered on the way.  Pleasure rockets through her body as she feels both the delightful little strokes of Harley's fingers-- and feels a sense of the whole hand and body that does the work!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah," Harley laughs softly, lifting her chin smugly before trailing her fingers down over Ivy's huge upper arms.  "You know you're my moll."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So I do!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy feels warmth spread throughout her-- pumped from her heart, of course.  Whatever she might have been, in an 'ideal' universe, she would be desperately unhappy trying to force herself into another mold.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am Poison Ivy, not some might have been.  Damn right my power is subtle; all these new muscles are fun, but they're not who I am.  Just ways to survive enough to do the botanical witchery I do so well.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Happily, she nods swiftly and gives her bondmate-mistress a brilliant smile.  "So I am, So I am, my love."  She laughs quietly and kisses the smoothly banded far edge of Harley's left pectoral muscle, just below the clavicle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A green lipstick outline of her kiss remains, but nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she makes a demure pout, while wrapping her brawny arms behind her back and clutching the right at the wrist.  The heavy flexes from both pump out her green-skinned triceps and delts for Harley, like boulders suddenly rising in an avalanche.  One, two, three, four, five-- bulge after bulge down to the elbow, and then the great big bumps below it.  Luxuriating in the shared attention and desire, Ivy grins at her mistress-mate's wolf-whistle of appreciation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All for these little things?" Ivy asks with a wink, shifting her stance and grip a bit to make her traps join in the fun, popping up and out with unbelievable expansion.  She even tilts her neck off to the side, letting the compression of her shoulderblades over the traps push their proud top bridge of muscle, connecting from one side of the neck to the next.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's a little bit like overlapping scales, suddenly each growing with depth and breadth.  Or perhaps like an aeonium or echeveria, suddenly swollen with strength rather than water.  Not that Harls can't still squeeze me any time we like…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The quirky smile on Harley's pale face broadens.  "Yowza, Red.  Guess havin' me in you is good for what ails ya."  Her powerful fingers stroke around the prodigious domes of muscle as they swell into each other, running in synch with how Harley strokes her tongue thoughtfully from one corner of her mouth to the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy giggles, and kisses Harley again.  This feels so right, so perfect.  So while it will be so hard to let go of what should have been, Ivy wants to grasp onto her new future with both hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Grasping…</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "You're right, Peanut," Ivy says softly, groaning it while she circles her hips in slow, snaking motions.  "But I do feel the ache so… let's have more of your taste in me, shall we?"  Her dark red tongue flicks the air, then strokes over Harley's chin before Ivy smooches her way down the big babe's broad upper chest, stroking her tongue through the crinkled grooves around the edges of Harley's pecs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley groans wordlessly, rolling her own perfectly pretty hips about and shaking that bubble butt of hers.  Ivy can </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> it now, right through her mistress.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ivy thinks smugly.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>My senses have expanded… it's time to grasp more of my Harley-dear.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought gets her giggling again.  To Harley's bemused flexing, Ivy squirms her "mere" one point nine-eight meters worth of tremendous muscle-bitch against Harley's two point three-one of humongous muscle-goddess.  Tit squirms against tit, with spillage onto the blunter, more compact muscles under the arm as Ivy finds more hardness to wriggle her bumper crop of soft melons against.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, Ivy knows there may be bigger Hunters out there and far more powerful to boot.  But she incorporates Harley's endless fertile lushness and eternal, giant harshness into her personal religion.  The Green will always have Ivy's loyalty, but Harley has Ivy's </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm, Red, I see ya got something on your mind…"  Harley groans, and raises her long arms up high, clasping her hands together and reaching behind her back.  "I do too.  And not just how t'find Noah's baby girl and get her safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All other obligations except between the two of them melt away as Harley clenches her hands together.  "Feed me, Red?"  The pose shows off </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley's</span>
  </em>
  <span> titanic triceps quite nicely, but Ivy can see those even as she descends for other numminess.  "One more time fer the road?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lead by the sensory sharing again, Ivy kisses her way down along the solid, striated muscle of Harley's outer chest.  "Just once?" Ivy breathes happily.  "I think we can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> better than that, can't we, mistress?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eager, Ivy takes Harley's tightening of her stance-- and pumping out of her already gargantuan chest muscles-- as assent.  Letting her stroking fingers herald her arms' over the delicious combination of roughly scored tertiary muscles and broad, blunt abs, Ivy smishes her decadently heavy tits tight against the nearer expanse of Harley.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think… we can, yeah, Red," Harley goans, reaching so far back that the hilly swells of her currently quiescent biceps grind against her pigtails.  "Ooh-- tell ya what, dawn's coming soon.  You get me cumming until then-- 'cos we gotta go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dawn doesn't change visibility-- not for them.  But Hunters aren't the only creatures who can threaten their small crew of misfits.  And it makes for a lovely backdrop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Ivy nods eagerly and waves at Waylon, who takes Noah to give his mistresses their space.  She finds it a bit absurd, how pleased </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> is to see the worshipful smile on Waylon's face… to see within, the hormones and nerves sending messages throughout his slim he-behemoth frame.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He loves us both now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good boy.  Fast learner.  But I am for Harley now,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks, and shoves her wrists in tight, flexing the big bunched muscles of her forearm and the biceps' singular mass rubbing tight against the gorgeous Hunter's body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley groans, her lats and obliques grinding back against Ivy's enveloping mammary mountains, and her pussy fairly screams its approval with a musky flood of pleasure-juices.  Emboldened, Ivy wraps her powerful, huge limbs as tightly and as far around Harley's rough-hewn abdomen as she can.  Power thrills through them both, and Ivy's squeezes are not entirely fruitless against that seemingly limitless force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She travels by nuzzle, pressing her wet lips around lats and even the cute smaller bulges of Harley's serrati, like knuckles for the titan's fist her heavily banded bulges make around the core.  This time, though, Ivy presses a bit of aphrodisiac in as she goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Intending to just tease and torment her mistress a bit, to excite the pussy she adores before she gets to it, Ivy forgot the important part of that sentence.  Mistress.  Powerful hands come out to grab her; one set of pale fingers taking a firm grip on the base of Ivy's hair; the other pulling back on her hips with a possessive squeeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a delightful tightness over the perky padding and pronounced sway of Ivy's hip, but it does come out of nowhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Ivy can do anything about it. "Eek!"  The green musclebabe yelps in shock, her huge hard body little more than a light toy for the Hunter, a sixth again taller and more than a half again more massive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with the weight of the earthpower in Ivy to resist being femhandled about, she can't escape Harley's tight grip, squeezing at the base of her hair-- but ever so careful of her roses.  "What-- Harl-- I…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're doin' what I want, Red, don't take it bad," Harley grunts, each word gravelly-grinded out of her heaving throat, thick with muscle and lust.  "Got me </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> juicy… but I keep promisin' something I forget.  Can't have that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost of their own accord, Ivy's glutes begin to squeeze and unclench in rapid, shuddering motions.  The smooth, green globes atop wriggle around, and Harley's blue eyes grow bright with lust.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy yelps again as Harley half-kneels forward, and flicks Ivy carefully.  Her mighty forearms even flex out, demonstrating the beautiful brawn required to make free with the mighty Poison Ivy, Herald of the Green and loving concubine of Harley Quinn!  In a move that would have Waylon screaming in agony and healing multiple damaged discs-- even with only proportional expended strength-- Ivy's broad bubble butt and rugged, crazy back  are whipped about as Harley catches Ivy on her knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since Ivy has been empowered by the Hunter essence of her beloved, she squeals happily rather than screams.  There's a bit of delightful sting to the motion and and snapping at the end that jangles her nerves, but barely any real damage, quickly healed.  There's rather more kicking of Ivy's muscle-flooded legs, the big waves and surges of her hamstrings pumping as she groans her way into position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Licking her lips, Harley shifts her grip, grabbing Ivy's near shoulder.  "Mmm.  That's my Red, about to get redder."  The lingering purr penetrates Ivy like a dick made for Harley's frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With her head down and her teardrop tush up, Ivy wriggles and moans about.  She can now see her Harl's telephone-pole thick arm raise, the rippling waves of muscle beginning to shift around in all their fractal glory.  She's not blind to the raise, nor to the descent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Harley in her mind and Harley </span>
  <em>
    <span>empowering her </span>
  </em>
  <span>mind Ivy starts screaming before Harley's hand even falls.  "MISTRESS!" she yells, a line of saliva attaching top to bottom lip as her face pre-blushes and her body trembles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can calculate </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> how much force Harley is preparing, exactly how much time it will take, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>precisely</span>
  </em>
  <span> how sore her well-loved rump is about to get.  "I did say I was gonna make yer butt look like your mane, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Red</span>
  </em>
  <span>," Harley growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ooh, my hair, right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wait!" whimpers Ivy as she starts to recover (a little) from cognitive tactile precognition.  Harley's brow furrows, but allows her lover's… addition… to play out.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once more showing off her giant green triceps and fierce green forearms, Ivy reaches up behind herself, even more agile than Harley's tertiary-boosted grace.  Her long, flowing locks mostly followed the line of her body as she was flicked, so it's easy enough for her to settle the red as a sort of wispy thong, trailing between her jiggly, full globes.  But her hair is so wide and full that her quivering asscheeks are partially covered, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You… mm!" Ivy gasps, her powerful quads beginning to bulge and her bad girl muscles tightening into immense cables as she slides her femmecum-coated thighs apart.  "You can do it, Mistress Peanut!  Spank me </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> pull my hair… and you'll leave the hair intact to please your sight, I know you can… you will, won't y-AUAUUUGH!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy wails.  Her hair is yanked back </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Harley whales her hand down on the firm, bouncing rumpcheeks-- across both in the middle to mark the left with her palm and the right with her fingers.  Much as Ivy begged, or ordered, or begged-ordered, Harley indeed makes her hand whistle through the air, whistling becoming a scream of its own as the air becomes superheated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet Ivy is now far more strong and sturdy than even, say, a yellow-sun-soaked kryptonian.  Far more.  A little plasma burst over her butt and hair does little more than increase the sting, emphasize the brand of her lover's hand, and send her hair blowing.  Or it would send her hair blowing, if the quick slap of hand to ass didn't pin her hair down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then pull further along the naturally plush curve of green Ivybutt.  "Yes, Mistress, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> follow your promises, Mistress!" Ivy wails.  "I'm not weak like those men!  I'm strong!  Beat my ass and pull my hair and mark me as yours, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She's already cumming before the next swat even touches her.  Harley giggles as she goes, making the spank-brand equivalent of funny hand-shadows, little butterflies and rabbits and moose, using the imprints of Ivy's hair added to the mixture.  Pain and pleasure feed them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In full-- in both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is not Ivy far closer to a Hunter now?  Not just brawny beyond the wet nightmares of men, beautiful beyond muscle fetishists' darkest hopes, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so strong… and Hungry.  She thanks the Green and Gaia-Geb in high, piping squeals, her femmecum overflowing her slit and pouring like an obscene libation as Harley's swats send terrifying agony through Ivy's eager ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I warned ya what I wanted, Red," Harley growls, her hand stern and swift over Ivy's bouncing buttocks.  The cheeks are marked over and over again, with Ivy's hair adding delicious texture shifts as well as keeping her head yanked back and aching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not just her head that's pulled back nor her ass that reddens.  Her eyes roll up high in her head-- not quite all the way, the lower green arc of her iris showing.  Blushing brightness is mapped over her entire face, the corded power of her neck, and blooming even further over tits and shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am marked.  I am loved, and I am marked!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  "Harley!" she screams, surrendering herself and all her sensations to the link.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As her lover brands her butt, Ivy cums her brains out, shaking her tush to better distribute more pain and more sting over a wider surface area.  She rubs her abs this way and that over Harley's raised knee, scraping her blunt rows of chiseled muscle over the huge prominences of Hunter power.  Thickly packed legs spreading wider, Ivy glorifies in the pain and conquest, femmejuices rolling along her inner thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain is delicious.  Harley's pleasure, devouring Ivy's pain, exquisite.  How much Harley loves her… fantastic.  Perhaps the only thing that equals that love…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is the sensation of being stamped with Harley's hand.  It makes her ass's agony throb in time with her clit, and she wonders if she can get a little clit ring with Harley's sigil.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Something to show off to a newly trained toy I'm making into a present for her,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks, half-delirious from cumming.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>To remind them that even when eating me out, it's all for her, always for her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"And our love, Red," Harley whispers, and straightens up slowly.  "Never forget our love, even when you're down this far."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm," Ivy groans.  "I want to speak of myself in the third person and beg to have the same done for my tits."  Since Harley's released her, she turns around and makes spiralling gestures with her stacked and sinuous arms, before flicking her fingers beneath the green pillows of her breasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hefts them up, forefinger and middle just barely touching the areolae as she points the ever-stiff nipples at Harley.  "Won't you redden your Red's titties?" Ivy pouts in a sing-song voice, then breaks into giddy giggles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her musclebound mistress raises an eyebrow.  "Sorry, sorry," Ivy says, then winks.  "Like you have cause to criticize silliness, my cruel and stern mate."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Long fingers trailing over the lines at the border between the bases of Harley's breasts and her hard, blunt pecs, Ivy coos, "We haven't the time for it, anyway.  You promised me a final snack below the road-- and then you fed me instead!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley laughs, and heads over to a nearby booth, hand in hand with Ivy.  Battering the table and anchored stand completely to dust with an errant flick of her pinky, Harley releases Ivy's hand, and plops her ass down.  "Fair enough," she giggles back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her nostrils flare a bit and she traces her tongue along the edge of her teeth.  "Show me your best work, baby," she rumbles as she swings her right leg up on top of the booth's back, the left dangling idly out to the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The movement shows off Harley's best, too.  The languid pose gives the bigger woman plenty of room to display her powerful legs, every bulge and cable-like extension of muscle either flexed out on her right, massive, mace-like calf grinding into the enormous, tense upthrust of her hamstrings.  Her beautifully brawny right arm, casually lying over the boothtop behind her leg, reminds Ivy of the time Superman held aloft an entire crashing fortress, preventing it from falling into a nature preserve.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His were so much smaller even pumping out like that, vibrating and taut.  I'm not sure that together they were her equal.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She smirks.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who am I kidding?  Even if both of Superman's arms put together could equal one of my darling Harls' arms' muscle </span>
  </em>
  <span>mass</span>
  <em>
    <span> relaxed…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His whole body doesn't have the strength to equal her littlest finger!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But what makes Ivy </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> whimper and chew her lower lip isn't that casual display of flexion, definition, and flexibility.  It's what's between.  What Harley's fingers are pointing at with deceptive relaxation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing her beloved's blonde-muffed pussy flashed like that again almost makes Ivy cum again; it certainly makes her feel like she's falling in love all over again.  With Harley, with that perfect pale mound, labia as fat and wet as ever, and with the moist honey dripping from her petals.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And her poor, lonely clit, Ivy!  You've linguistics to be about!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's distracted for but a moment.  "Oooh."  The groan comes out in a soft, swift puff of air, and she squeezes her sore ass cheeks together tightly, her glutes shivering with the force of the flex and her arousal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She saunters closer, hips waggling from side to side.  Her butt has been branded and beaten, so each arrogant swing and horny shimmy hurts like fuck-- like being fucked by Harley still.  So she swings her legs wider, especially when she makes it between her lover's killer legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Green eyes meet blue, and Ivy pushes her fingers up along her broad, sensitive areolae until they're just below the nipples.  She doesn't break the direct gaze in the least as she bends her knees together and sinks to the ground.  As she lowers herself, she fingers along the edges of her profligately fat nipples, tapping out a beat to the love song in her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm!"  Harley grins broadly, flicking her pointer fingers in little darting motions, pointing towards the waiting wetness.  "Don't feel like ya gotta hurry </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much, Prettiest Poinsettia.  You're poetry in motion."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't take the sensory-empathic bond for Ivy to know what </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span> of poetry Harley means-- and not just dirty limericks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The musky fragrance of Harley's arousal curls around Ivy as she crouches.  As the tangy-sweet taste of it tickles Ivy's nostrils and makes her heart beat faster, Ivy swings her hips faster and faster, ticking from right rumpcheek to left and back like a metronome, shamelessly showing off her red-branded buttocks for any Hunter in Gotham to know.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>This ass belongs to Harley Quinn-- and bless her for the taking!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Although she's luxuriating in Harley's enjoyment of her graceful, controlled motions, once Ivy's close enough, she can't restrain herself any longer.  Her head darts in and her knees hit the floor, roses and red hair waving around her like a cape of her own.  She moistens her lips with an extra dose of intoxicating pleasure-stimulants, and makes a kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I've got ever so many orgasms to make up for from that lovely ass-tanning, after all, and only two and a half hours left to eat her out!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It'll have to do.  The green of Ivy's lipstick and the wetness of her tongue's salivating caress catalyze, an already expert slit-smooching boosted by the sudden burst absorbed directly through the skin.  Her tongue is rewarded instantly, Harley's delicious femmejuices flooding over it as she makes contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Unf</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Red!  Once you let go, you don't play about!"  Harley's grunt hits at the same time the first shock of pleasure cycles through them both, but Ivy isn't playing around either.  She's already learned to control the bond, and while she wouldn't think of </span>
  <em>
    <span>resisting</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley's pleasure, she channels it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's pleasure is like a lovingly wielded whip through Ivy's mind.  As she peppers kisses over the engorged nether lips, she lashes herself to more precise nuzzles, licks, and probing presses.  Does this spot send a heated burst of gratifying stimulation through Ivy, and the next even more?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Ivy walks her lips and swirls her tongue from one spot to the next, ignoring sight to focus on touch and the bond's demanding generosity.  She feels her way along in loving strokes of her tongue and passionate brushes of her lips, always moving towards Harley's clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holy shrine at the end of Ivy's pussy pilgrimage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps unsurprisingly, Ivy has Harley cumming before the first touch of lips to the beautiful little nub.  She lets Harley gush over her face, not because she disdains the rapturous taste, but because Ivy feels a sudden, surging need to lavish attention over that sensitive spot.  She's rewarded, instantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As her tongue touches the stiff fleshy bulb, Ivy's own climax rocks her.  She almost bites her own tongue from how hard the shared stimulation strikes, but while Harley is of course her truest mistress, Ivy is at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>a</span>
  </em>
  <span> mistress of her body, and she instead stretches her mouth open wider, letting her long wail of pleasure vibrate the tip over Harley's clitoris all the faster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Aaaaaahhhh!"  Ivy cries out, singing sweetly of her mistress' mind-swamping generosity.  As dizzy as it makes Ivy, she forces herself to focus on Harley.  In promise of that focus, Ivy flicks her eyes back up and using the penetrating vision to stare past Harley's mammoth mounds and meet her intense blue gaze head on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Open-mouthed and groaning, Ivy ruts her hips back and forth, grinding her still-stinging ass over her hard, grooved calves.  Her tongue twists again and again, but it's not alone.  Ivy's palms clasp together in prayer for her Hunter-goddess, and her fingertips sweep up for Harley's quivering snatch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning, Harley reaches down to run her fingers through Ivy's hair.  "Fuck, Pammie," she breathes.  "You do really love my pussy, don't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But of course, my love; I hope you and your sex can share me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  If it's a silly thought, then it's a Harley-ized thought.  Exactly how Ivy wishes to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They brush the lowest point of Harley's cunny first, then separate.  Her right fingers tuck deftly around her chin to tweak and caress Harley's left lower lip, tugging just hard enough to stimulate.  Harley hisses, sucking air in hard and harsh and sending her tits heaving as Ivy's pinch squeezes in time with her tongue-twisting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's Ivy's left hand that has the more holy mission.  If Ivy's tongue completed the pilgrimage, tip to clitty, atop Harley's slit, then the first two fingers of her left hand have a deeper quest to follow.  They plunge into the hot, clenching wetness of Harley's spasming sex, wriggling this way and that within.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's eyes are stuck rolled back in her head, and it's a good thing she's using touch and pleasure-signals to guide herself.  The shared pleasure from her mistress has made Ivy's entire world seem to shimmer and glow, hazy around the edges.  As she flicks her tongue and fingers around, drooling over Harley's pussy, the world narrows to her task.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes!  Fuck yes, Red!  More like that, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that, ya green-eyed, green-skinned, great-pussy-eatin' slut!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not an insult, but highest praise to Ivy's ears.  High praise that she barely hears.  Not because of her own wordless cries of delight, but because sound, like sight, has become hazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is only more cunt to eat.  Her right fingers shift, stroking into Harley's tightness.  The clenching action of Hunter-snatch in orgasm almost crushes her right fingers into her left, but Ivy has been made tough far more than strong.  All the rhythmic squeezing does is make it easier for Ivy to simulate stuffing that lovely tunnel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ohfuck," Harley grunts in a rush, coming out all one word.  "Ohfuck.  Ohfuck.  OHFUCK!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it's Harley's turn to squeal, big muscles tensing like beachballs being inflated inside of each other.  She never gets a silly, spherical look, not even to the dome-like pump of her delts, of course.  But the more she shudders and spasms in constant orgasm, the more that pumping makes her hyper-developed limbs and super-sized, super-hard core expand out, muscle rising on top of muscle.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, my love.  I should have brought a garden with me, so that I could have my plants pleasuring your pussy while I got to suck on those nipples or worship every last square centimeter of taut skin over unyielding muscle.  Oh well, we shall have a millennium of "next time!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy just can't stop drooling-- mostly because Harley is so mouth-watering, but also because she can't shut her lips.  She can't even kiss any more; her jaw refuses to tighten up.  Like the blush of arousal has permanently relaxed the muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, Ivy's entire world is pussy.  She's aware of her body, distinct from Harley's; aware of Harley's mega-muscular majesty.  But while the former is, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the latter beautiful, they all seem to be in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can't keep away some tinges of regret at that.  Her mega-amazonian mistress's mega-buff body is quite scrumptious at the best of times, and with her whole body moving in time to Ivy's dancing tongue, Harley is a luridly artistic </span>
  <em>
    <span>experience</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Pleasure combines with power; pumped out in shapely bulges, curved just right and proportionate for her overall frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's background nonetheless.  She feels her brain bloom and Harley's power work upon her, letting her sense and comprehend so much more at once.  Multitasking sprouts in her like banyan trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it all is dedicated to the same singular goal.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pleasure my Harley.  Pleasure my mistress.  Pleasure my beloved, and may we orgasm so hard that mighty Gaia-Geb must divert the energy of our cumming!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well…  It's a nice diner.  Perhaps not so much as all that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The foreground, the focus-- all of that is pussy.  Every shudder and ripple in Harley's sex rocks Ivy to her core.  The pleasure they share as tongue cleaves to Harley's clit and finger grinds against her G-spot is so much Ivy isn't sure she isn't squirting already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hopes not.  She doesn't wish to run ahead without strict permission.  She wants to scream Harley's name though her tongue's addiction forbids.  Ultimately, it's far too late for coherence now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"PAMMIE!"  The word rings out and rings clear through Ivy's orgasmic haze.  Her fingers pull back as though on automatic, and she gives the clitoral object of her worship a super-fast peck before burying her face against and even into Harley's slit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She may have "permitted" her mistress to mark her face in her starting femmecum earlier for the finest and fairest of reasons, utterly shameless clitoris-adoration, but Pammie isn't missing out on a drop of her mistress' squirted climactic fluids.  Having begged and licked and stroked and fingered Harley through any number of climaxes, lesser and greater tonight, working up to just this one moment…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pammie decides that if Harley wants her as a willing submissive, she's going to have to put up with Pammie being a greedy piggy sometimes.  So as Harley screams her name again and again, Pammie guzzles down every drop of cuntcum without a moment's hesitation.  Her own cunny leaves quite the mess on the floor beneath her--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>will leave as another tip for that nice young man to come back to--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>and Ivy keeps drinking down Harley's ejaculate, worshiping the pussy that quenches her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when that orgasm passes, Ivy refuses to be done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever-hungry, not just for Harley honey, but for Harley's pussy itself, Ivy is forced to let that beloved clit have </span>
  <em>
    <span>moments</span>
  </em>
  <span> away from Ivy's tongue.  The taste and texture of skin, the feel of arousal-swollen lips pressed tight-- a craving Ivy cannot deny.  She has to taste the smooth, hot flesh of the vulva itself, teasing her tongue around the border between external and internal, between the soaked surface and the source itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greed for Harley-Quim consumes her, but she's a loyal little plant-slut; she always makes sure to dance her tongue back to the altar of Harley's clitty.  Even when Harley slams her head into the wall behind her and sends debris slamming at trans-sonic speeds, windows shattering with the boom-- Ivy doesn't stop.  Refuses to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has until dawn, after all, and intends to make full use of the privilege.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's been a good night for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy.  There was a rough start for Harley, and she took some convincing to get where Ivy wanted her and they both needed her to be.  But overall, the orgasms have been great, the future looks bright, and you can count one kraken-Hunter-rescued moment of vision-quest tripping as a mulligan.</p><p>So for now, Ivy's content to get some cuddling in with the second most important person in her reaffirmed relationship: Harley's pussy.</p><p>That done, the pair of them remember an old truth-- Ivy warned Harleen Quinzel that she wasn't rescued until she left Arkham.  And on that day, she didn't-- when the Joker took her out the gate, her mind was trapped there, seemingly forever.  But the Pulse has come, and with it, all debts, due.</p><p>And no matter how alone Joker and the Ace Chemicals left her, she could always feel her Pammie's touches.  So it's time to leave Arkham, and, at least in part-- to be Harleen again.</p><p>With her fool's cap tucked beneath her Harleen once more, she takes a last, mutually Sado-Masochistic feeding from her Ivy's titties.  Then?</p><p>It's time to take her, at last, to a land without shadows.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Harley Quinn does love Poison Ivy, and right now, she loves how good of a pussy-addicted slut Ivy is.  Especially how addicted she is to Harley's pussy.  And what a good job she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her Beauteous Blossom Babe is an amazing ride.  So much so that Harley hates to see the first grey light of false dawn.  Admittedly, at this point, even her souped-up Hunter engines are spluttering a bit.  Climaxing for hours does that, even if you can't go numb.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, I'm not cumming now-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>did</span>
  <em>
    <span> I go numb?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley's sensorium informs her not quite deliciously.  She is, indeed, still being stimulated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By Poison Ivy rubbing her cheek up against Harley's still-gushing lips.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like a cat scent markin'... but it's my pussy doing th'scenting.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley is getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> the buzz from the sensory link with her pet plant amazon; her expanded senses are having synesthesiaic overload, with pleasure creating lush pink tones, lust orange of all things, both making sounds have tastes…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley has something of the sort; she can hear light, see sound, and so forth, and Ivy is developing it, but that doesn't usually cross the chemical-vibrational barrier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a tad concerning; Harley suddenly sweats heavy and cold, glistening over pale tautness.  "Baby?" she groans as she sheds the otherwise partylicious fruits of Ivy's plant-ness.  Her Prettiest Poinsettia functionally drugged them both several times in the course of bringing Harley the sweetest orgasms of this or any other life..</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I ain't exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>experienced</span>
  <em>
    <span> with this whole communion thing.  I ain't even Catholic.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The joke runs away as her brow furrows and her knees spread apart, the heavily cabled muscles pumping out long and slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You… you alright down there, Pammie?" she groans, fingers trembling microscopically as she runs them along the silky strands of red.  "Just… we're all a bit woozy-floozy mixed up in my brainspace."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Ivy a few moments, her huge chest heaving in jiggly symmetry as she looks up.  Harley feels Ivy's nostrils flare as she does her own breath; tastes her own pussy's arousal on the air from above and below.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I smell sweetah in Pammie's brain than in mine.  But that's okay; she makes more than my mouth water the same way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ivy shakes her head shortly, rustling her hair against Harley's hands and brushing one of those sensitive roses close.  Then she giggles and gives Harley a lidded-eye stare before planting another green smooch on Harley's still-sensitized labia.  "Just cuddling, dear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leans back, her hard abs curling in a snaking motion that makes them look almost as soft as the lush knockers above.  Her nipple is still bobbing about for seconds after Ivy rests her powerful shoulders against Harley's far more powerful thigh.  The pose frames them against Harley's long, cable-like bad girl muscle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are the most important part of the relationship, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span>, my love," Ivy coos.  Then, she slowly, deliberately, and with such attention to detail it nearly gets Harley cumming again just watching, wipes her pointer finger over the remnants of Harley's climaxes over her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>But</span>
  </em>
  <span>."  Dipping the finger in and out of her lips, Ivy circles and swirls her tongue over the tip, not wasting a single drop of Harley's pheromone-laden femmecum.  "I thought I'd spend some time reassuring Little Miss Kitty down there that she's at least second in my heart after you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley giggles.  "Guess more than power and boobosity came across with the oaths, huh, baby?"  She pats her lap and winks.  "C'mon up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eagerness spilling across the bond, Ivy shakes her shoulders and her even broader-still hips out and about.  The rhythmic, sensuous motion puts more than a little bit of extra shimmy in each butt-bouncing, titty-shaking sway.  As she rises, she sticks her forefinger further and further into her mouth, sucking on it like she had Harley's nipple and was trying for milk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley wraps her heavily-sculpted left arm around Ivy's hips, resting her palm on the squishiness of the far side.  Despite the more than a foot's difference in height, Harley's last two fingers barely sink at all, and despite the squeeze, Ivy's taut flesh bounces back up the moment Harley curls her fingers into a stroke.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perfect,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks with a happy sigh, then pulls her right hand up to cup Ivy's chin.  "Hey," she whispers before fiercely kissing those honeyed green lips, fingertips running over Ivy's jaw and cheek as she kisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes her time, too, luxuriating in their togetherness.  When she breaks the liplock, Ivy pouts a bit but leans leans her head against the powerful, blunt little hillock of muscle just above the base of Harley's immense tits.  The only part of her pecs to see the light of day, or at least false-dawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By Ivy's cooing and contented bond-sharing, they make a good pillow in addition to an engine of interstellar destruction.  "Hey yourself," Ivy replies, and reaches up to steal Harley's hand, lacing their fingers together and resting them on Ivy's own powerfully built thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There we go," Harley says with a chuckle.  Her accent's lighter now, the thunderous cascade of orgasms soothing the savage Brookylinte.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She holds Ivy in silence for a few moments, just enjoying the infinite sensory reports that tell her what she already knew.  Poison Ivy is perfect for her.  "Do you remember when you saved me the first time, Red?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy blinks, but follows Harley's line of thought swiftly enough.  She shakes her head a bit, and plants a green kiss mark on the border between the striated pectoral muscles and smooth breastflesh.  "I didn't, though, did I?" she asks wistfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'After all, you're only </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> saved if you leave this place?' ya mean?" Harley says softly.  "I shoulda listened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's not your fault; I knew that bastard was working on you."  Ivy plants a palm on the side of Harley's huge breast, about midway to the nipple along the sideboob.  "I said it then and he took you anyway.  He took you and put Arkham in you for so long."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should have taken you out; I should have taken you someplace safe."  She gives Harley a guilty flash of green eyes and shared emotions.  "I wish I'd really gotten you loose.  I'd… I'd love to have had you as my shrink a bit longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's okay," Harley says softly.  She leans on her own sense of love and surety.  "I had bad times, but I had good times, and I wouldn't trade either for all the muscleage in the world."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley flexes and winks, but Ivy sighs, and scoots herself closer, trapping her right arm's long heft between Harley's armored abs and her own.  "He got you,"  Ivy says softly.  "He got you, and he put Arkham in your soul."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley shakes her head, feeling Ivy's failure pulse in every heavy throb of her heart.  "None of that.  Mistress says stop the guilt train, no passengers, move to a different track."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Ivy giggles and shrugs a bit, her well-blossomed chest sweetly grinding her thick nipple against Harley's sensitive skin.  Harley leans down and kisses Ivy on the forehead, the fingers on those delicious, broodbearing hips squeezing firmly.  "I want you ta remember this, Poison Ivy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He had me.  You got me.  When I lost myself, you got me, Pammie."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice is a strange admixture of vulnerability and ferocity; claiming Ivy as </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> hero, but needing her understanding.  Fortunately, the bond between them makes it hard to miss the connection, and Ivy wriggles her arm free of its abtastic prison.  Wrapping it around as much of Harley's sturdy midsection as she can, Ivy hugs every bit as tight as she can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley keeps herself passive in the hug.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can overwhelm her if I'm not careful-- and while that's fun, of course, if I keep doing it, she'll fade-- or worse, become an echo of Ms. Harley "Narcissa" Quinn.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>So she just lets Ivy take the lead for a few moments, and even when she does wrap her arms back around Ivy, it's the weight of her muscles, not their strength, that puts pressure in the hug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hold together like that, as the gray light brightens, not quite rosy yet but beginning to overwhelm the fluorescent lighting above.  Softly, Harley asks, "Pammie… do you mind if I call you that?  I can't tell; your head is such a whirlpool after our night, and…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy blows a puff of air past her lips, makes a wry smile and shakes her head.  Harley can feel it's not a negative, just shaking out the cobwebs.  "And we can't share the way we should, I know," she replies softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she leans up to plant a none-too-submissive but incredibly loving kiss against Harley's jawline.  "No, I don't mind-- not any more.  Because Pamela Isley would have been Harleen Quinzel's bondmate."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile is wry, but her green eyes glitter; she tilts her head slightly away from Harley, as though looking far, far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's regret, there, but none of the terrible, dark depression that Harley was terrified would eat at Ivy's soul.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Once she realized she was gonna have to be a partner still-- junior, but a partner-- it's like she was terrified of giving me herself.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley kisses Ivy's forehead, all her vast musculature trembling lightly.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like she was afraid of being inadequate, and so she kept herself apart.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  No, there's a bit of bittersweetness to Ivy's low, breathy voice, but Harley's so glad to know it's just a small ember, and not a cold, devouring flame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, Ivy's wryness twists into a brilliant, beaming smile.  A sun to which Harley bends, kissing her forehead again, while Ivy snuggles in and quietly says, "It's a bit of the past, that made our future."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lets go of Harley's hand, and reaches up around the decadent excess of Harley's juicy left breast.  "Thank you for helping me let go of Woodrue; of letting go of that pain."  She plants her palm over Harley's heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she winks.  "Call me Pammie any time, Harls," she purrs and begins to trace dainty little designs in Harley's sweat, running down towards the dark tightness of Harley's cleavage.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A bondmate for Harleen Quinzel, she said,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley thinks.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She's right though.  The Joker put Arkham in my soul, but I put my own stamp on Harley Quinn.  It's just that he cast the dice… that made the stamp.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I forgot my metaphor somewhere there.  Sometimes I'd like to forget being Harley.  Maybe I can.  But do I even remember how to be Harleen?  Especially a </span>
  </em>
  <span>new</span>
  <em>
    <span> Harleen?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're welcome, always," Harley says cheerfully, flicking her tongue out and flexing her huge pectoral muscles just lightly, bouncing said cleavage back towards Ivy's hand.  Rosy light fills the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rosier than normal, through the smoke and ruin of the city, but neither Harley nor Ivy are seeing by light entirely anymore, are they?  It is color of its own and it engenders color.  But it is not </span>
  <em>
    <span>necessary.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless, dawn is coming.  Dawn and decisions.  They aren't necessarily linked; but then again, they are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time slows to the vibration of a clock-tick, humming on forever.  The question isn't just 'can she be Harleen' or even 'should she be Harleen.'  At least-- not the first question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To figure out the fundamentals of change, she first has to understand who Harley is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She remembers the vat.  She remembers falling.  She remembers so much pain and then…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not feeling much of anything at all.  Even the harshest punch felt so very, very far away.  The Ace Chemicals </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- she doesn't even want to know-- took away her ability to feel constraints and pressure very literally.  She lost peer pressure, because she couldn't feel the press of someone's hand unless it was a squeeze.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He made me alone, the Joker did.  I thought I had him to fill the void for so long, but that's why it was always so easy for him to leave me… and for me to leave him, whenever my obsession broke, even for a moment.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, the Joker isn't dead.  For a moment, he can never be dead, because he's changed Harley-Harleen, and she's still falling into his void.  Into the void that set open, yawning and inhaling her deeper than any Hunger ever could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she feels Ivy's touch again.  Ivy's warmth, Ivy's strength.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I could always feel it when Red touched me, though.  Other than that, it was a great big void.  No wonder I was such a chump-- I was imagining him all the time.  It just happened to be close enough to what was real.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She can certainly feel much more now.  Strong, lime-colored fingers clutch ever-so-slowly, twitching with Harley's heartbeat-- and with Ivy's own.  Pammie's, if Harley needs to think of her that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Ivy's palm steadies, and for a moment, they both listen.  To themselves, to each other.  Through each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smooth positive feedback loop forms-- just a little.  Harley feels her heart beat; feels Ivy feeling her heartbeat; hears the sound, feels the sound; senses sharing with Ivy, senses shared from Ivy.  The world is a heartbeat between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Them.  An us-ness.  As they promised-- an us-ness that transcends even Harley's incredible Hunter lifeblood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Alone?  I </span>
  </em>
  <span>was </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone still, until Ivy found me-- until Ivy brought me out of Arkham.  I didn't even pick the diner, she did.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about the bond, Harley realizes suddenly that she has a little seed of Poison Ivy in her mind.  Not the brain-eating kind; the brain-mapping kind.  Everything physical that makes Ivy, Ivy, is memorized, and the bond shares that which is not natural.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She considers the Ivy she has, and the Ivy that, in some ways, Harley will now always and forever </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Ivy-seed cannot speak in her head, as she suspects is true of other bonds, but that's okay.  Harley can barely even comprehend what she's missing.  Because she's not missing all of it.  Everything Harley perceives now is full of Ivy-- Ivy's perspectives, Ivy's likely assessments, Ivy's reactions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even Harley's arms aren't as full of Ivy as Harley's world is.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers trail along the sweetly smooth flesh of her green-skinned beloved.  Now, she can feel light and sound and the tiniest particle.  But she's still separated; even the Hungers of her sisters are such quiet roars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she has her Ivy-seed, and she will </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> be alone again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not since she and Ivy swore to each other; not since they entered a true, if quiet communion.  In Ivy, there is a seed of Harley.  More limited.  Less data stored; less quickly updated.  But everything that makes Harley herself comes from the non-physical every bit as much as the physical, and that is shared completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley will be a part of Ivy as Ivy grows, just like Ivy will be a part of Harley.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So maybe…  Maybe I don't have to make this decision alone.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She smiles brightly, and time speeds up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can't wait to smile, moving so fast that all her wife should be able to see of her face is one heartbeat, pensive to the next beat, beaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy strokes her fingers up towards Harley's chin.  "That feels good, Harley," she purrs.  "Share your thoughts with your Pammie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heh.  Yeah, about that, Red?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Harley," Ivy asks.  "Yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley inhales slowly.  Ivy's curiosity wraps her like the only warmth that matters; her love sinking in past Harley's now invulnerable skin to tease at the muscles and nerves.  "Remember," Ivy adds.  "You're not alone.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Never</span>
  </em>
  <span> alone."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Seeds of each other,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley reminds herself, and nods.  "I think… You remember what I said in the story?  That maybe it should be Harleen, again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brows furrowing pensively, Ivy slides her palm down and away from Harley's heart, though the beat goes on.  Her hand strokes and her fingers test, running over the vast curve of firm breastflesh, rugged forearm passing over both of Harley's nipples, then beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gravity doesn't do much to Harley's breasts but give them succulent jiggles, but it feels like Ivy is holding up more of Harley than her knockers.  Holding her up to the light.  "Harl… are you sure?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley sighs a bit.  "Ya know I'm not," she points out.  Ivy quirks an eyebrow right back at her.  "And you ask anyway.  Meanie."</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She laughs, and pulls Ivy's hands up around her neck.  Oak-hard muscles, warm under bare green skin, rest over the dramatic upper curve of her tits.  Feeling her interest,  Ivy bows her head in faux demureness, flicking pupils up to lock on Harley's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's hands come together behind Harley's powerful neck, the thinner bulking strands of muscle near her wrists resting against the top of Harley's traps.  She laces her fingers together, then squeezes her palms together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Palms, and pecs, the huge chest muscles bulging out and cramming Ivy's heavy green breasts down and forward against Harley's pale mammary mountains.  Ivy flexes slowly, letting Harley feel the bulge against nerve-laden breastflesh, and the light burn of a full flex through the bond, then smiles.  "Let's try this on for size, shall we?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Like a hat?" Harley asks, blinking.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought I was the one with the gags.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sure," Ivy chirps gleefully, reminding Harley that much was shared through the bond.  "It goes on top of you and it helps people to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> you are as well as </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> you are." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley tilts her head.  "Whatcha got in mind, Red?" she asks, feeling the warmth of Ivy's humor thrumming through her like a second heartbeat.  One with a little flutter from her bondmate's devilish sense of humor, but strong nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why, such familiarity with your ex-patients, Doctor Quinzel?" Ivy purrs, stroking her hips from side to side, wriggling their jiggly goodness as she kneels in Harley's lap.  She winks.  "It has been ever so long since our last session, of course."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her shoulders' powerful domes of muscle roll smoothly back and forward as she does so, maintaining the flex-- like a pair of boulders deciding to dance on their own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Harley can answer, Ivy makes a wicked, full-bodied laugh, and licks her lips while her tits carry the laughter on in their own bobbling waves.  Her voice is breathy and deep, like the moan of a slowly-building orgasm.  "Good thing doctor-patient relationships are out the window, then, mm?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tosses her hair back, roses flying wildly amidst the red strands.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Do</span>
  </em>
  <span> call me Pammie, Doctor… or indeed Red, if you wish."  She nods towards her beloved's face, her honeyed lips' bright green puffing in a hands-free blown kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then her face softens, the angular cheekbones not as prominent under an almost addled smile of adoration.  "Just call me yours," she says, voice so soft but with a ragged edge that isn't quite a sob.  "I've wanted you for ever so long."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You will never need want again, my love; the bond cannot be undone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughing, the massive Hunter runs her hands around Ivy's powerful back.  She takes a fond moment to feel the heavily sculpted lats and obliques.  Stroking her fingers over those chiseled masses and away, she follows their grooves to the small of her back and down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If we're not going to cling to those ethical guidelines, Pammie…  Call me Harleen."  Her voice is soft but her eyes are bright, the glow of Ivy's humor rushing into Harleen's blue eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excellent, and with the formalities out of the way--" Ivy's voice finds room to deepen further into contralto, and then to a snarl, "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mine!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  With that, she lunges forward to kiss Harleen fiercely once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or perhaps for the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eager either way, Harleen's tongue tangles with Ivy's; her own taste still lingering in Ivy's mouth.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>After the night we had and the sensations she surrendered, I'm not sure </span>
  </em>
  <span>either</span>
  <em>
    <span> of us are going to taste anything but my pussy for a few hours… days… wev.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They hold there for a moment, Harleen's hands settling possessively on Ivy's voluptuous asscheeks.  Her fingers squeeze and press at the lush globes, enjoying feeling them spring back into form and bounce lustily when she releases.  She takes rather longer to release Ivy's tongue, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There," Ivy groans, her hugely curved hips oscillating slowly, like Harleen had a finger deep in the front rather than all hands on deck on her rear.  "The harlequin's jingly hat isn't gone," she purrs.  "Just tucked beneath my Harleen-- I'd never want to stifle your laughter, love."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still flexing her enormous upper body into glorious expansion, she leans in closer than close.  Harleen can feel Ivy's intent, but her actions make a thunderbolt run from Harleen's clit straight up her spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because as the "little" Herald of the Green, not quite two meters tall, moves in to plant a soft kiss on Harleen's forehead, there's a pair of not at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> unwelcome heavy squishes over Harleen's face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently, Ivy didn't bother to tighten up her chest and make use of her Hunter-like tit-control.  All of a sudden, Harleen's face is full of Ivy-boob, the lovely melons swinging forward with the lean, wobbling all the way.  And the smack of each proud breast into Harley's face instantly made her mouth water...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tucked beneath Harleen, is it?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Her fool's cap may be "hidden," but she's not surrendering her jester's scepter.  Inspired by all the lovely green softness smishing her face, she blows a raspberry-motorboat combo against the sensitive skin.  Ivy moans and her flex relaxes, musclebound arms wrapping around Harley's head and holding her tighter against the lime-colored cleavage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen's teasing lips make Ivy's pussy drip down between her parted legs, and onto the vast, rugged thighs below-- from between muscle onto musclier!  The fragrant, rose aroma of Ivy's arousal grows steeply, and Harley feels her Hungers hit harder than ever before.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I-- I don't want to hurt her…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, I do want to hurt her,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harleen realizes in a snap, and the thought… isn't a cold one.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I just don't want to </span>
  </em>
  <span>harm</span>
  <em>
    <span> her, and she wants this, too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's soft groan hits a high squeal; her slow gyrations are abruptly forced into overdrive.  Her sadism-Hunger demands a last meal before the road.  So Harleen's teeth sink into Ivy's left breast, not too far from where they begin to push out and grow wide.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wriggles return to rutting hips, the sharp pain of Harleen's bite making her cunt react </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Clenching and drenching not like Harleen was teasing her with a single finger…  More like her </span>
  <em>
    <span>fist</span>
  </em>
  <span> was taking up residence and making Ivy stretch to fit!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not--- ahhh!" she whines, pain and pleasure mixing into a glorious whole.  "Not what I had in mind but </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking hell Harleen, don't stop!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not fucking likely given how tasty these titties are!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harleen feels everything she does to Ivy, magnified across her larger titties' surface.  No harm is done as Harleen holds fiercely tight to her grasp on Ivy's breasts, a single sharp mark of pleasure and pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her huge hands travel further down, feeling the tops of Ivy's hamstrings as the woman herself screams, "Yes, oh, Green, oh-- oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>GREEN</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, Harleen, mistress, goddess, </span>
  <em>
    <span>aaaaah!</span>
  </em>
  <span>"  The six foot six floral amazon thrashes around in Harleen's inescapable grasp, muscles strong enough to wrestle even a Hunter bulging and pumping wildly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen takes Ivy to orgasm after orgasm, paying her back for the pre-morning pleasures in spades.  Not to mention taking her own sex-soaking share through the bond.  Aware of her full strength now, Ivy's brawny body actually manages to roll Harleen off the booth and onto the floor with a resounding crash, shattering the floor down to the very foundations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her tits don't leave their pillowy lock on Harleen's head for a second-- nor does Harleen let her leave the bite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen easily controls the roll, though, and ends up on top.  She releases her clamped teeth all in a rush to better perch upon her smaller bondmate, knees to abs and palms to shoulders.  There's not even a hint of blood, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy makes up with a gusher between her thighs, ejaculate splurting from her pussy in time with the throbbing of the red marks left behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two take a moment to calm; Harleen pulls them both back up to their full height.  "Goodness </span>
  <em>
    <span>gracious</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Harleen," Ivy groans, and winces a bit as she runs her finger over the mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fiery stare and fierier lust she shoots towards her mistress leaves no doubt of her opinion.  Her words, even less.  "You do understand I'm going to be putting you in pillow nirvana on a regular basis to get more of that, yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two look at each other, then giggle a bit.  Harleen smiles proudly, and runs her thumb over the same mark, purring when it makes Ivy shimmy, whining and gasping once more.  "Guess you picked up more than a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bit</span>
  </em>
  <span> of my sensa'humah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughing, Ivy slaps lightly at the bigger woman's hand.  "Guess so, my Harleen.  I guess so."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kiss once more, long and slow, as though devouring the last of the orgasms-- and the Hunger-- together.  Harleen kneels down a bit and Ivy pushes up on one foot, the other behind at one knee.  Their lips press together just as fiercely as their huge breasts, holding tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Light floods the rather battered diner.  It's Ivy who breaks the kiss first for once.  Her floral swimsuit is growing once more, and she pets Harleen's naked breasts with aggressive, if circumspect strokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We must get you at least a bikini, dear, or a toga of some sort," Ivy says with a laugh.  "Or we're not going to be able to talk to your minions, let alone any other mortals without having to let them masturbate-- or forbidding it far too sweetly-- every third sentence."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mm," Harleen says with a purr.  She has some things in mind; but she doesn't want to do much more in Gotham until she hits the city limits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least the suburbs.  She has no idea how far Cassandra Cain will decide the reach of the Bat-Hunter goes.  Nor does she wish to test.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I got an idea, but I kinda wanna get further away from Silent Belfry back there, you know?" Harleen asks with a wry grin and another, far lighter smooch.  "Or maybe go with the toga idea for a bit, then my idea?" she asks, nodding at the drapes over one of the diner's blown-out windows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sounds good to me, beloved," Ivy replies, wrapping her large, powerful arm around Harleen's larger, far more powerful limb.  Hardness to hardness, big and little, yet they feel like their arms were made to be held together like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As for Harleening…"  She smiles, and reaches a bit further down, scraping her nails lightly over currently smooth-ish muscle to the sensitive inner wrist.  There, she takes Ivy's hand, squeezing it lightly.  "We'll see how it goes.  An' Pammie?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, love?" Ivy gasps, brawny green body shuddering.  The tingling of the wrist-stroke lingers, making the heat of their palms tight together spreading like a youthful blush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you for saving me from Arkham," she says seriously.  "No matter where I go, I've left it out and behind, up here."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen taps her forehead with her free hand, to Ivy's giggle.  Her bright green lips curl back in a sappy grin all at odds with her deadly physique.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or not, because beauty and savagery, joy and strength should not be so at odds.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's get away from Gotham; away from Arkham," Harleeen urges.  They </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> an us, and this is something she feels like she can't demand.  "I don't want to come back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got it, Harls," Ivy says crisply, and plants a green lip-mark on Harleen's huge tricep, like a tattoo.  She squeezes Harleen's hand and cuddles closer, her other hand coming up to stroke Harleen's bicep with a warm, ear to ear smile radiating across her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up, Harleen loves the way her glittering green eyes search Harleen's face, like Ivy can see the world there.  Her world, at least.  "But where do you want to put down roots?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where I was planted first.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Out loud, she asks, "Ever been to the Big Apple?  Like-- not the modern touristy stuff, but the classic?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not really," Ivy says wryly.  "Unless you count a few UN jobs, attacks on the financial district, things like that."  She blinks a bit and amends.  "Also, the times I've controlled every human in New York State, America, and/or the World."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen giggles happily, big boobs shaking with the laughter.  She presses them close to Ivy's own pair, warm and proud, and kisses her nose.  "That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>super</span>
  </em>
  <span> touristy, my Sweet Sugarbeet,"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy laughs again.  The jiggling goes on, Harleen's bitemark still resisting healing, and both like it that way.  "Well, you know me, easy in, easy out, seeds on the breeze."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rests her head against the top of Harleen's chest, forehead against the still-hardened top of her pectoral muscles.  "I'm kind of hoping-- expecting!-- you'll change that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen's eyes glitter too, and she wraps the superbly developed and sculpted heft of her other arm around Ivy's arm and shoulder.  "You're my not-so-potted plant, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let's go with that for now, sure."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrunching her nose and sticking out her tongue, Harleen smiles and goes on.  "Plants need light…"  She tilts her head towards Ivy, her mighty shoulders rolling away, and her gaze growing distant for a while.  "So lemme take you to a land without shadows."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy sniffs, putting up her nose and flipping her hair about.  "As long as I'm with you, what other light do I need?" she asks, and plants another bright green kissmark on the broad canvas of Harleen's upper arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But Harleen has an answer now.  "Plenty!"  As Ivy huffs, she strokes her palm around, caressing Ivy's cheek tenderly.  Shaking her head, she whispers, "It's 'cos you gotta have some of your own to share with me, Ivy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's smile outshines the dawn.  "Let's roll, Harleen."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Epilogue 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Narrioch: the Land Without Shadows.  Or, as a fascinated young Harleen Quinzel knew it: Coney Island.  She loved all of it-- well, almost all of it.  The bathrooms were questionable.</p><p>It's not the same, though even the government buildings have a carnival atmosphere now.  In the four months since the Pulse, she has spread her power out through much of New York City, under the sheltering branches-- and vines-- of Poison Ivy's great Stone Thorns.  This is Barony Coney.</p><p>It's here that her Chief of Metalicious Security satiates  Hunters with high standards for dick one moment and rides heard over metahumans and humans alike from an amusement park where he was once a part of the freak act.  Where the Calculator, obeys without question, secure in his family's survival and utterly devoted to his mistresses.  It's here that humans can walk free under open sky-- mostly.</p><p>It's here that Ivy's Greenwitchery has created Calcuplant Bio-AIs, vast new islands, and, more importantly after the Hollowing of the Great Plains, massive cropfields.</p><p>Barony Coney is a place where humans and Hunters alike live mostly free, as long as they can live under the High Rollah's idiosyncratic humor.  In that, it is nearly unique.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Four Months After the Pulse</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coney Island, New York</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coney Island isn't all that far from Gotham, as the Kryptonian's hurled.  In some ways, though, it's a lifetime away.  In others, there's hardly a relationship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We done good, Red," Harleen says quietly.  While her hair is blonde with red and blue highlights, and ever shall be, she looks very good in her preferred outfit-- the crown piece of which is an alternating red-and-black leather-like jacket, covered in diamonds and stars.  Grown by Ivy and specially made to stretch dramatically over Harleen's enormous muscles, the former nonetheless keeps several waiting to be plucked in their closets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have a tendency to get caught during </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> energetic flexing and tear anyway.  Harleen does try to take it off before any deliberate posing "contests."  Usually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's matched by a bustier of the same material, with a black belt studded with diamonds made from a sort of smooth, self-lacquered bark, and a big buckle that reads H+P.  Similar material makes up armored stockings and their kneepad/shinguard combination.  Except for the belt, the red and black diamonds and stars motif is everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The belt, and her mismatched size-20 tennies.  One red, one white, because she can't stick to any pattern for too long-- except for Poison Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy walks barefoot everywhere now, and her only clothes remain the leaves she grows and loves to have Harleen pick, one by one.  She snuggles in against Harleen's big, brawny arm and nuzzles her pythonic bicep.  "Yes, we have."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you," she whispers, "For giving me reasons to grow </span>
  <em>
    <span>for</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bright lights glitter everywhere, even during the daytime.  Most of Harleen's-- or sometimes Harley's-- subjects have lost that sort of dazed look on their face at the series of cognitive dissonance traps that is the post-Pulse Coney.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carnival atmosphere has permeated everywhere, even the former commercial zones, completely reclaimed as wide open fields and parks.  Technically, the Coney Amusement Park herself is really only a part of the home residence of the (sigh) High Rollah Harleen's territories.  The part open to everyone serving under the law-- and the few tourists Harleen accepts, to avoid exploiting her position of power over her neighbors and endangering Ivy thereby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or rather-- it's the home </span>
  <em>
    <span>fief</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the residence itself a bit more esoteric, since Harleen wanted to keep the amusement areas open, and even restored and reinforced them.  She certainly sent no one out of their homes, either.  In a very "them" solution, Ivy grew a gigantic tree, infused with earthpower to be as unyielding as stone within Harleen's territories, just off the Boardwalk and to the east.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen's eyes glitter like the lights.  "Can't imagine where I'd be without ya, Red," she says softly.  "Even if I was rulin' Coney, I'd still be in Arkham in my head."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hulking, mega-amazonian woman winces, thinking of other, less lucky domains.  "Fuckin' people too scared t'even pee themselves on the street-- or in the subways, more like," she says grimly.  "Tryin' to convince them ta live above ground during the day-- 'cos it doesn't matter, the Hunters will kill ya either way."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that is one of the great truths of Coney's power that no Great Polity, nor even the Specials like Cassandra Cain's Greater New York.  Perhaps only West Mountain Dominion and the Star Enclave-- when the raiding alert levels are low-- have subjects or citizens or subject-citizens who grant their mistress the same high accolade.  There are few other signs of a Hunter's strength than this:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her people walk freely and of their own choice under the open sky.  Over the entire world, most citizens flee the day, for all it is no more Hunter-ridden than the night, and don't like going outside during the nighttime much, either.  They know that between Harleen Quinzel and Poison Ivy, they can walk free without being snatched by either enemies or Harleen's suborinate Hunters</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other than Coney, the West Mountain Dominion and sometimes the Star Enclave, everyone else either has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>force</span>
  </em>
  <span> their human property to walk outside at all, let alone during the day, or has no choice-- ironically enough, the Princesses force their citizens to normalcy whereas the Candy Girls don't.  Then again, the Candy Girls don't really have to bother outside of a few core areas and those that have carefully human-cleared 'Plexes…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In most parts of Candyland, the slaves simply have nowhere to go other than to rely on the great Wards (fueled by said slaves' pain) and their oversized Hunter contingent.  Of course, not wanting to offend, Harleen would say that she cheats and Star has friends.  That only Queen Lupe Lòpez has both the strength of reputation </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> the strength of reputation that her people come out voluntarily.  Harleen is still crazy, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That said, on the few occasions Lupe's been asked, she's been known to drawl, "An' what's the difference between my Outlier standing and 'having Ivy?'  Oh yes, the former is rarer and it took work to have her love."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning against Harleen, Ivy's breasts squoosh lightly across the smooth surface of the tall Hunter's jacket.  She rests her ear against Harleen's side, her hand over Harleen's heart.  "And I'd be in a never-ending dream of the Green."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We've built a future together, my love.  I'm proud of our Pride," Ivy says, face dimpling with a smile.  "And yes, I can feel-- you are, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not just the Coney neighborhood, either.  Manhattan Beach and Brighton came first, along with the parts of the Lower New York Bay to the west of Coney.  Within the first month, Harleen's rulership was accepted by most Hunters and even enthusiastically by most humans and metas in Brooklyn entire.  While Harleen isn't wasting any of the sleep she doesn't usually take on the distinction between </span>
  <em>
    <span>subject</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>slaves</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she's been almost a gender-equal Athenian on the matter of subject-slaves' </span>
  <em>
    <span>rights</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obedience under the Coney banner brings a certain amount of order to the life of the lowly former masters of the Earth, ironically, despite Harleen's personal whimsy.  One thing she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> even remotely erratic about is protecting her own.  Kneel and swear the somewhat…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silly…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oaths against Shadow, whether Hunter version or (almost) everyone else's, and you are entitled to a number of protections-- life, nourishment, shelter, and visiting the Parks at least once a week among them.  Not everyone takes advantage of the County-wide free derby tickets for Harleen's personal "entertainment" circuit (once per season), but even Hunters will often take their favorite pets with them to visit Coney when there's time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admittedly, on </span>
  <em>
    <span>leashes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, generally, or taking weightlifters, gymrats, beach bums, and others who thought themselves strong to the Hunter-tier tests of strength…  But as long as you're not too lippy, even the pets generally walk home with everything but their dignity more or less intact.  Thoroughly raped by their mistresses, sure, but still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're used to that.  In Coney, at least, one can generally surrender to pain and pleasure in a strong mistress' arms without having to fear death.  Only the worst sort of condemned criminals can be used for that sort of amusements; Harleen is </span>
  <em>
    <span>firm</span>
  </em>
  <span> on this.  "Not even if they ask 'freely,'" Harleen says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if she doesn't say it, Ivy does, surrounded by numerous Stone Thorn coils, shifting and coiling like the Hydra's heads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen can see over all of her above-ground dominion, and unlike most other Hunters, beneath as well.  There is nowhere her subjects and vassal Hunters will settle that's far from the deep roots of Ivy's great Stone Thorn plants.  Harleen's privacy screens may not be the most top-notch on the eastern seaboard, even not counting the Elixirates, but with the sky-scraping Thorns defending her, it takes even more powerful Hunters than usual to peer within-- or even to </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> within.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's why Harleen's people feel comfortable with something that is almost vanished on the changed Earth-- open, daylight living above ground.  Protected by the earthpower infused plants of Poison Ivy, residents of the Land with No Shadows can walk free, knowing that unwanted visitors will reach the attentions of Harleen's court sorceress.  Even if, sadly, having to grow the Thorns to their full defensive dome brings darkness to Coney Island.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of sorts-- Harleen's the one who came up with the specs for the Stone Thorns, even if it's Ivy who did the growing and praying to Gaia-Geb.  When the Stone Thorns must coil over a neighborhood, or the whole of Brooklyn, great luminous fungus-balls are grown all around the inside.  They taste like cotton candy and are healthier than greens, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A steady heartbeat throbs against Ivy's hand.  A steady heartbeat from a still-whimsical woman.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Because my Harleen will always have more than a little harlequin in her, and I like it that way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy rests easily against Harleen these days.  She no longer fears another Pride member might take her place.  In fact, she desperately wishes that they could </span>
  <em>
    <span>find</span>
  </em>
  <span> another woman with Rightness, so that her beloved mistress need not be alone in the quiet of the bond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her powers constantly exercised defending, upgrading, feeding, and maintaining Coney-Brooklyn, Ivy has grown, too.  Not in centimeters of height, though her already super-developed upper arms have added a whole ten in circumference, and her immensely sculpted thighs even more than that.  It is still her mind, and her preternatural abilities, that have stretched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy may or may not ever have quite the multitasking power of her Hunter mistress-mate.  It's hard to tell; much of her own brainpower is tied up interfacing with the great, quiet minds of the Thorns themselves.  Leaning on that extra computational power, and on soil consecrated to her Pride by the blessing of Gaia-Geb her-himself, Ivy can all but control every coil of thorns individually.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not that it's letting me 'speak' to her like our vassals do, sadly.  I do think I understand her better, with so many Ivies, yet all the same, wandering around in my head.  Besides… some things communicate anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She's not alone at the defense; the Calcuplants, built in no small part to resemble a botanical Calculator, are quite able to handle most smaller matters.  Noah himself mostly serves at Ivy's feet, efficiently ordering those non-defense tasks that need her attention or the Pride's approval.  Thoroughly in love with Harleen and Ivy both now, he has functionally unlimited access to the Pride's resources.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does not even dream of escape any more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen bumps Ivy with her hip; without a word needed to be said, Ivy shifts from "moll resting against mistress" to "moll wrapped around mistress' mighty arm."  She swings her always swaggering hips forward, while elsewhere, her mistress' chosen plaything is snagged.  It could have been the Calculator; it might have been Mason, but Ivy always knows who these days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elsewhere, Killer Croc finds himself ensnared in vines, binding his arms and legs whilst holding him in a standing position.  "I think it's time for my lesson to stop, mistresses," he growls with quiet diffidence.  "I hope you'll forgive me the lack of a bow."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's naked; the three Hunters who've been training up his combat skills for Harley are clad only in robes.  The shortest, a two and a half meter tall Hunter-- taller but far weaker than Harleen-- chuckles, and runs a hand over the Croc's cock, stiffening it slowly.  "Gotta make sure you're ready for our High Rollah," Angel says with a laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The firm pump of her fist over his long, dark-pink shaft makes him moan in the bindings.  "Can't have her thinking we've been taking our pay mid-lesson, cute stuff."  Angel continues, chuckling as her hand flicks away with a gently stinging swat on his cocktip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Access to a male who, while fragile, can actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>fill</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hunter-pussy is the price Waylon pays for becoming a better Chief of Metalicious Security.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or rather, Harleen pays them with access to her prize pet.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy can see Waylon, feel him in the vines like he was already wrapped in her arms, held up for Harleen's fancy to tickle.  She strokes the poor bastard's feet with a few vines, and Harleen smirks, reaching down to squeeze Ivy's ass with approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Ivy torments the man who's both the lieutenant most likely to be seen in public and still the favorite meat in a Harleen-Ivy sandwich, she chuckles wryly to herself</span>
  <em>
    <span>.  I really need to get her to change her styling to Baroness-- maybe I can make her a black leatheroid catsuit to sweeten the deal-- and shorten Waylon's job title, just a bit.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Ivy suspects the former much more possible than the latter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially since Harleen finds the former joke more limited than making words things to rhyme with bootylicious when describing Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waylon Jones has poor memories of Coney-- of carnivals in general.  Nonetheless, in his personal duties, he walks not only the farm-streets and residential, but the Parks, making sure his teams are there and ready.  Perhaps it gives him some measure of power over his memories, knowing that he is one of the few metahumans with a true position of authority in Coney.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Which is another reason why we both reward him with our attentions as much as is fair.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Waylon has learned to love his torments; the precum that Angel's flick started beading at the tip of his low-hanging, girthy tool has been joined by a veritable gusher, for a man.  Discovering his ticklishness was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> day for Harleen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps not so much for Ivy-- or any other ticklish denizens of Coney-- since Harleen also figured out what nerve-placement and neurological patterns indicate ticklishness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> denizens of Coney, since Harleen then proceeded to figure out how to make nerves </span>
  <em>
    <span>act</span>
  </em>
  <span> ticklish too.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hah,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ivy thinks as she saunters on towards the now-thrashing reptile, her legs making long swaying swings to keep up with Harleen's ground-devouring pace.  Her ass wriggles with anticipation, the lush green jiggle barely concealed by its leaf.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hah, I say at myself and anyone who thinks we're cursed for having a liege-lady with a ticklish sense of fancy.  It gives us quite a fanciful way to be used.  To have us ready for her pussy's whim.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What could be better?</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Epilogue 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Let's get away from Gotham; away from Arkham," Harleeen urges. [...] "I don't want to come back."</p><p>Six months have passed.  Barony Coney, the Land Without Shadows, has literally grown under the firm hand of High Rollah Harleen Quinzel and Concubine Poison Ivy.  The somewhat idiosyncratically-titled Harleen has defended that which is hers, and under her watch, Ivy has been able to create static defenses and food production that are the envy of a good chunk of the world.  Only the fact that Ivy is so obviously bonded to Harleen has kept more powerful Hunters from stealing her away-- few are those who would interfere with a bond that is so obviously sanctioned and sanctified by Gaia-Geb.</p><p>But that's not what Harleen is worried about today anyway.  She has been summoned back to the very place she wanted to never return.  But the Widow of Gotham is a legend-- one of the fastest, most effective, nastiest fighters in the world.  A Top Tenner, she's won a practice bout against a Queen of the Hundred-- by knockout-- and has been slowly increasing her control of the eastern seaboard.</p><p>But what worries Harleen the most is that the Widow is Cassandra Cain, the only woman of the Bat Family to become a Hunter...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Six Months After the Pulse</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Back in Gotham,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley thinks.  Not that she's gone back to an Arkham state of mind, but sometimes Harley is a better protection against the past than Harleen.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even if the past is now smokin' hot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassandra Cain is not a terribly large Hunter.  In fact, she's about six centimeters shorter than Harley.  Harley does not in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>slightest</span>
  </em>
  <span> believe that this would make any difference in the result of what would happen if the Widow of Gotham decided to throw down with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither does a very nervous Ivy, right by her side.  She's got some sort of Green-based hurry-home whammy that she and Harley practiced with before accepting Cassandra's politely, if tersely worded request for her presence.  Offer of peaceful return aside, violating an oath is mostly a matter of curses and the social-strata version of a godawful funk.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And while we didn't really cross punches as a regular </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing</span>
  <em>
    <span>, we have the past in common.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassandra Cain is lithe, as mighty Hunters go.  Lithe, in this case, means that Harley's favortie fucktoy, meta-pet, and Chief Metalicious Security Officer, Killer Croc, can see her level of muscularity far, far off in the distance, not entirely and utterly impossible… for mass, at least.  She's still built on an intensely powerful frame, gorgeous in that power and its bulk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass's eyes are in many ways the most physically powerful thing about her.  There is nothing soft about these browns, not in the slightest, despite being known as a "soft" touch with humans.  Harley can feel them directly in her similarly potent sensorium's primary focus, auguring into and past Harley's skin with a ferocity that makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to directly verify her own total-sphere senses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To make sure there haven't been any holes burnt through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Cass has developed top-tier Hunter-scale heat vision, simply through the strength of her own willpower.  The way that she looks at people-- and reads their intentions and actions-- makes Harley wonder about the rumor that Cass' pre-Pulse mastery of body language translates in the ability to read the otherwise sacrosanct Pride bond.  If it's so, the gorgeous, elfin face, graceful lips drawn thin, reveals nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a lot of character and expression in Cass's face, framed by her short, straight, black hair; barely making it past her jawline. Her long, elegant eyebrows seem to say most of what nodding or shaking her head doesn't.  What's left is generally taken care of by her Steward, Stephanie Brown.  Unlike the Cass Harley remembers, she does speak more than a simple yes or no…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As is usual for most Hunters, Cassandra wears an outfit that isn't particularly restrictive to her powerful form, and fairly revealing of her apricot-colored skin.  She wears short-sleeved, short-length black robes of a silky material that carries no decoration at all.  In fact, were it not for the bat part of her bat-and-spider motif, Harley would be a lot more relieved that Cass meant to leave the past behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, her unreadable expression is really all the mask she needs, and the only kind that could stop a Hunter's sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>An' see point Eye: zap effect.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Frankly, if it weren't for Harley's fear that Cassandra is cleaning house on the old Bat's unfinished business, she'd find it really damn cool.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I wouldn't wear a mask if I could make people think I could shoot eye beams.  The cowl doesn't count, she wears it down.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The robe is worn fairly loosely, open about halfway down the top of her cleavage.  The plunging hem shows off her corded neck's graceful strength as it glides down into the bulging top of her traps.  She has decidedly shapely and rugged shoulders to go with the powerful back muscles, though the effect is far more subtle than normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the gulf in their capabilities, Cass's brawny shoulders aren't quite so burly as Harley's own.  That said, the shaping and development of her delts-- as everywhere-- makes Harley wish she got more time with the singularity/space-loop resistance "weight" machines Coney's fields have purchased her Hunters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Cass stands out more for her slenderness than the devastating titan builds of someone like Star, there is one area that she stands heads and shoulders past her sisters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Definition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, all Hunters would make the pinnacle of body-shaping bodybuilders weep with envy for more than just their incomparable raw mass and unequaled body-curving.  But Cass takes it to an entirely new level.  The crisp grooves and tight, banded lines of her sinewy muscles are so well-developed that her skin almost looks as banded as the actual muscles beneath, so much so that her skin sometimes looks like it's constantly covered in motion-lines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The effect is accompanied by the fractal muscle-on-muscle of similarly tight, intricately chiseled tertiary musculature.  This slight but striking distortion, coupled with Cass's speed and grace, sometimes make her more subtle movements hard to follow, even for her peers.  Her feints and active dodging would be the stuff of legend all on their own-- were she any other Hunter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is Cassandra Cain, the Widow of Gotham; they're just a part of the overall myth that is her combat acuity.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Widow of Gotham, feh.  She never </span>
  </em>
  <span>married</span>
  <em>
    <span> any of the Batcrowd-- euw.  She was a </span>
  </em>
  <span>daughter</span>
  <em>
    <span> to Bats, sister to the chirpy distraction brigade.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That said, I guess if you wear black, rule Gotham and environs from Stately Wayne Manor, </span>
  </em>
  <span>were</span>
  <em>
    <span> indeed a Batchick, and actively, personally enforce one of the fairest set of laws for Hunters and subjects alike, people might make some weird assumptions.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her black robes only come down to about midway over her upper arms.  Like many Hunter outfits, it's just practical; "lithe" with its huge asterisk of "for a top-tier powerhouse Hunter" means her arms still have quite the pythonic appearance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That said, the shredded 'ceps currently resting easy might have some competition for volume by a pumped meta-brawn type, so long as they were even more ripped than Harley's Killer Croc.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flexed meta to unflexed Cass, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Similarly, her long, elegant forearms, bare, peachy skin tight over perfectly developed muscles, are slightly less bulky than even a weaker Hunter like Harley's.  But the same super-intricate definition follows down all the way, from the macelike prominences just below the elbows, to the spiraling cables of muscle-fibers to and over the wrist, to even the back of her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her chest is one of the few areas where that's disrupted, and then, only in one location-- her fairly prodigious breasts.  Cass wasn't spared the extra oomph in the rack department that she was in the burly, but at least it's all proportional.  She looks like a hentai babe in the tit department, alright, but not so much so that it gets in her way.  The robe does hug the smooth, giant mounds tight enough that her can-sized nips can be seen, almost constantly aroused like any other Hunter's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of her chest has the same intricate look, like the cable-sized fibrous structure was knit in deliberately.  Not just her chest, either.  Harley isn't the only woman envious of Cass's multi-pack abdominal muscles and their shaping!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Covered by a broad sash that holds her robes closed, her jacked midsection is graceful and agile like the rest of her body.  While her boobs may be a bit more out of place than on your conventional Hunter, Cass has grown into some dramatic hips.  Her short black robe covers down about halfway to the thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she didn't sit with one musclebound leg over the other, she'd be flashing her gorgeous, black-haired sex for even her human audience to see.  And then nothing would get done save another orgy.  Harley really does try not to be jealous, but still...</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least I got better hips.  They're Ivy's, but they're still better.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  While she waits for Cass to finish her audience and clear the room, Harley sneaks her hand down lower across her beautiful concubine and gets in a squeeze or two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass's legs are perhaps a bit more proportionally brawny than her arms, like the classic image of female strength-- until the coming of the Hunters.  Her thighs have more muscle-mass than Harley's, despite the difference in sizes, while still super-sculpted down to the smallest bend and bulge in the powerful flesh.  Her calves are the size of a man's head, too; with the same super-striated, sharply defined form as the rest of her musclebound frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wears simple sandals, not the high heels or bare feet of most Hunters.  Those, at least, Harley isn't jealous of; the wood, and the self-regenerating straps, were a gift she and Ivy sent a while ago.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She seems to like wearing 'em.  That's a good sign, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing Cass' message had included, other than written copies of the assurances her Hunter courier made, was the bare bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>"Harleen, Ivy.  It's time to discuss allegiance and association.  Tomorrow, after court."  Harley and Ivy had arrived early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other than repeating the safety assurances-- and Harley's mind keeps parsing </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> for loopholes, you bet-- Cass hasn't spoken to them, or really most people .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley's </span>
  <em>
    <span>worked</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Cass, before the Pulse.  She was scary enough then.  The psychologist in Harley does wonder what it feels like for a dyslexic to undergo Hunter mental perfection; the jittery predator in the presence of a vastly more dangerous predator wishes she'd learn to be less terse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some people claim that Cass can grab a Hunter's punch with the flex of just a tiny subsegment of her muscles.  Some people say that she's such a skilled fighter, Lian Liú came to her after the Pulse for training-- and walked away accepting Cass's simple "no" without daring to challenge her.  Some people say that Cass can kill even a fellow Hunter with a single punch, at the right place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing her sit on her high throne, Harley believes every one of the legends, and the only reason she isn't calling this whole interview idea a bad job and hightailing it for the hills is she isn't sure that spontaneous teleportation through the Green would take her far enough and fast enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits on a throne of in-place stone, which would have required human hands and human effort to build, let alone move.  The intricacy and subtlety of the carving and inlays-- including the bats-and-spiderwebs theme-- is a demonstration of power.  Stone requires human hands, or lower-tier metahumans, which are easy enough to acquire, it's true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except that easy in this case is… relative.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Unworked" being something of a broad, ritual definition.  Human implements and human labor brought this boulder here, dumped it in the middle of an earthen mound that forms the base.  The sculptor would have been brought in, on-site, in plain view above the surface, needing to be under Hunter guard lest someone make a strike at the Widow's prestige or oaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each carving has to have been done in one symbol at a time.  No pairs, no smooth motion from one design to the next-- no, one inscription, wait; one inscription, wait.  Cass probably had to get help from the High Priestess or some of the other Herald-equivalents out there.  Real artistry and patience went into making an invulnerable throne.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Artistry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>now-- artistry is hard to get out of broken and battered slaves, nor from those so helplessly addicted to his or her own pain and pleasure at a Hunter's hands.  To have this kind of professional work-- and the team that's working on surrounding the rebuilt Wayne Manor with stone is hardly just brute force lugs-- you have to either be sufficiently dangerous to your fellow Hunters that humans come to you willingly, or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> dangerous, enough to take prized possessions like this throne from fellow Hunters the hard way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They say the Widow could be the latter, even if she probably got it by way of the former.  That's the only reason Ivy and Harley came at all, rather than use a combination of cutting off access to Ivy's fields, and hiding behind Ivy's Stone Thorns and staying the hell away.  Because while the Widow rules her subjects quite firmly, she doesn't make life and her domain a hellhole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone Ivy wants to cultivate and Harley wants to see thrive-- in theory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassandra Cain may not be a terribly tall Hunter, but the way Harley hears it-- and has seen, from time to time-- she packs every bit as much power into her "tiny" two and a quarter meter tall body as she did as a Bat-brat.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Relative</span>
  </em>
  <span> to her peers.  Which is why Ivy wasn't sure it would be a good idea to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stronger and tougher than ninety percent or more of her sister Hunters, Cassandra Cain's effectiveness has never been measured in her physical strength anyway.  Though anyone who forgot how brutal and powerful a body David Cain made his daughter grow into would learn that quickly if they thought an arm-wrestling contest was the way to "beat" her.  No, Cassandra Cain has always been justifiably feared for being arguably the most effective martial artist on the planet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being a Hunter doesn't change who you were in the soul; that soul, apparently, seems to map what you become.  Harley's big and burly, but compared to others in her weight class, there are bigger and burlier.  But her incredible flexibility, reflexes, and lateral thinking means she wins fights with those ladies anyway-- just like she did before.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Only, ya know, back then with dudes as often as the ladies.  Technicalities are the soul of accuracy, or something.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The thoughts are errant, flitting faster than even Harley's swirling mind is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her body is trembling every bit as much as Ivy's-- which is to say, microscopically, imperceptible except to one of her own kind.  And Harley can see how much each tremble makes Cassandra shift her jaw, flare her nostrils, and/or nearly lick her lips, right now.  The fact that she can also smell the otherwise hyper-controlled Hunter getting moist from Harley's fear just makes things worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Cassandra Cain was able to throw down with Queen Star, one of the greatest predators in a race of predators, in an exhibition-slash-mutual-masochism-feeding match… and win.  Not on points, either-- by knockout.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Despite </span>
  </em>
  <span>Star being astronomically stronger, faster, tougher, and so forth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was close, they say, and Star will keep learning more tricks, while Cassandra isn't likely to grow more powerful, probably.  But even the Hundred don't treat Cassandra Cain lightly.  Not on Gotham soil; not anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley, by comparison, is about middle of the road; running and hiding behind her thorns is her only bet and she's not even sure of that.  If Cassandra Cain decides that she wants to start cleaning up </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> past, Harley isn't sure that she can protect even Ivy, let alone herself.  And Cass's super senses are rumored to be as crazy-effective as her terrifying stare would seem to imply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The end of court feels like it takes forever.  And yet, Ivy has to mentally elbow Harley to get her to stop trying to drag them both into the frozen moment, silent but emotionally connected, with every steady tick of the court clock.  Ivy, too, is afraid, but she doesn't have Harley's freedom from Hunter sureties and Drives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are committed.  They have an escape plan.  Dithering about with subjective time will not stop the final moment's arrival, only draw out the pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ivy made sure that all of Harley's Drives were well-tended before she left Coney.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, it comes.  The guard-attendants shuffle the crowds away.  Cass rises from her throne, all of her intricate definition shown off even more in motion than in stillness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dais of the throne gives her the elevation necessary to look down on everyone save perhaps the bigger Outliers, but Harley is slightly relieved that the powerfully built woman gives them a simple, almost warm nod.  Even a bit of a honeyed smile, though it's so surprising that even in its beauty, the smile is more than a bit intimidating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Widow's heavily developed muscles move with that sinuous, rippling look characteristic of her legend, and Harley actually starts to really understand why </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>human toys like Noah get lost in staring at her muscles.  She's got the multitasking to walk and ogle at the same time, but still.  She's fascinated by even the slight incline of Cass's neck, the lift of her chin towards a nearby building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way they move and tighten already taut muscles in whorling patterns suggestive of the whole shape is impressively hypnotic, even for a mind like Harley's.  But she walks along, Ivy trailing after with her hands folded demurely over shredded abs, while her hips swagger with every bit of sensual confidence as walking the fields of Coney.  Harley falls in love with her all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As long as we survive this, I am such a lucky girl,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thinks fondly, leering over Ivy without turning her head.  Thinking of things other than immediate kung-fu destruction, Bat-style, gets Harley's curiosity ticking-- to a boiling point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That two of the Hunter guards are coming with them feels ominous to Harley, though it's really not.  Cassandra, like Harley, has no full-wife, no equal to communicate with instantaneously through shared senses and emotions.  The guards are basically acting as extremely buff radios, with the rest of their Pride mingling with Cass's sentries elsewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It ain't like they'd make a difference, anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They're about halfway to the building-- just outside the in-construction earthworks surrounding the rebuilt manor-- when her essential Harley-ness takes over.  "Hey, uh-- Cass," she rumbles, trying not to wince at her instinctive informality with this </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> formal lady.  "Does it ever bother you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harley's</span>
  </em>
  <span> secret weapons when she has to punch up or even is the lateral and outright orthogonal nature of her thinking.  She rapidly wishes she'd explained more when Cassandra's beautifully athletic body comes to a complete halt.  The beautiful interplace of her neck muscles at work flashes again, and Harley has to stifle a little moan over just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>exquisite</span>
  </em>
  <span> Cassandra's little confused pirouette is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" the Widow asks as she turns about.  It's flat but not monotone-- there's just not enough extra in her voice to give a real hint as to her intent, let alone her real question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smooth swing of her lush hips isn't the same as Ivy's snaky swagger, though there's a serpentine motion there, too.  More of a cobra, snapping around for the bite, slowed a bit but with the same, well-- intensity.  But as intense as her movements-- and her eyes-- still are, she's not uptight enough to force her breasts to not jiggle sweetly, dragging a full moan from Harley, the guards, Ivy, and pretty much every Hunter observing from afar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More importantly, there's an almost helpless twist around the edges of Cassandra's slight smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like she's smiling </span>
  <em>
    <span>from</span>
  </em>
  <span> confusion.  Relief rushes through Harley's own jacked body, spiraling out from her chest.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Amusement is good, right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley realizes she's been staring-- for only a few tenths of a second, but when facing the grand dame of Hunter hand to hand combat, every moment of sex-Driven interest feels… chancy.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh-- the Widow thing, I mean," Harley says with a much bigger but self-deprecating smile on her bright red lips; closing her eyes with the smile shows off her blue-and-red alternating eyeshadow.  She reaches up to rub the back of her blonde head, sending her pigtails bouncing about, an impromptu gun show with her own brawny arm showing off the greater mass and expansion-- though Harley feels more than a bit clumsy and awkwardly hulking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's all a rare sensation, made more awkward by how much more horny her discomfort with Cass makes her.  Especially since the fragrance of her pussy's moist response to that horniness would be quite detectable to a human-- and Cass and her guards are more than able to see how stiff it makes her clit.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiff </span>
  </em>
  <span>and aching and needing to be touched by more than the incidental tightness of her shorts.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At least Ivy and her guards are feelin' it too… an' I think she's getting some sadism drive nipply…  That's kind of good, yeah?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Etiquette is not a Harley Quinn strong point, unless you count carnivals, sleepovers, cheesy-fun activities, and roller derby.  Feeling out the new Hunter rules is sometimes difficult.  Everyone's so horny </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the time, and the natural social hierarchies enforce themselves with decidedly sexual results.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here and now, Cass's aura of complete control and grace makes Harley want to flex and show off her arms, and she does, looking for approval from this mighty woman.  The beefy girth of her upper arm and solid, coiled strength of her forearm both begin to push out and swell eagerly as she rubs the back of her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it also makes her feel foolish for doing so, a great Hunter brought low by an even greater one, if just for a moment.  And her Masochism Drive rewards that with a jolt to the clit like a lover's kiss.  Which makes her flat-out gush…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And even the tightly controlled Cassandra Cain flares her nostrils when Harley and Ivy's sweet-tangy fragrances rise together like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span> eager to get past this point of subtle Hunter etiquette, Harley hurriedly goes on.  "I mean, ya never married any of them, right?  I guess they're talkin' about being widowed from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>family</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but doesn't it get irritatin', especially when people don't know how you guys swung-- other than rooftop t'rooftop?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her accent hardens as she gets more and more nervous, as her survival instincts tell her to either get with the submitting or get with the fleeing, her pride tells her to punch that snooty bitch right in the pokey little snoot, she can't be </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much more powerful, right?  Harley has never been more grateful that her instincts are hers to command.  Even if they make for a dangerously chatty set of armchair quarterback-spankers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass actually blinks, the fluttering of her long, silky eyelashes moderating the harshness of her stare.  "Yes," she replies, makes another booty-swinging, tit-joggling swish of a turn, and heads on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley is also very grateful for her expanded multitasking.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Parts</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her can be stunned by the friendly if short answer, </span>
  <em>
    <span>parts</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her are getting more and more heatedly aware of how cute Cass Cain is when her face is a bit less stony, and part of her can be yammering in fear…  With enough brainpower left over to make sure she can grab Ivy's hand, squeeze reassuringly, and walk forward with a fearless, long-striding strut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her heels smack the earth below, legs kicking out in a not-quite marching prideful cadence, Harley feels much better-- just from that smile and that yes.  The foursome make it to the building, with only a bit of a tremor in Harley's taut frame.  She can't see within the chosen building; only that it's low, just a single story aboveground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Privacy includes, out of necessity, isolation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This building is entirely new; concrete over carefully moved but not shaped earthen berms.  The latter to protect, especially from prying eyes; the former to give it some aesthetic heft and show off again, Cass's sense of command.  She expends effort, resources, and her artisan subjects' time-- and expects that it will not be smacked down as a random casualty of two Hunter friends punching each other hello.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass can reasonably expect that nearby Hunters will take even ancillary buildings' </span>
  <em>
    <span>decorations</span>
  </em>
  <span> into account when judging their actions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, too, is power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once within, the two Hunter guards take up their posts flanking Cassandra, who folds her hands together over her super-buff, super-pretty abs, and meets first Harley's eyes, then Ivy's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley checks to make sure they're both not smoking or something while Cass speaks.  "I appreciate you being able to speak with me on such short notice."  She certainly does speak more often than before the Pulse, but even this bland, generic greeting sends chills bolting up and down Harley's spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't bother to suppress her shivers.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>How does Cass manage to make, "thank you for coming by so quick," sound so threatening?  Was it something the Bat taught?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The sudden, slightly frustrated twitch of Cass's left brow makes Harley wonder about the body-language thought-reading again, but she simply speaks on.  "Given our associations, we should discuss your allegiances."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley winces.  "That so?" she asks, and before Cass can monosyllable her again, also asks, "You tryin' to set up a new round, then?  You the bat an' me the jester?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't bother slipping into a combat stance, though her powerful (slightly shuddering) legs begin to part into a more centered stance.  Her musclebound limbs are sending frantic messages back in clenches and twitches all along grooved lengths.  They're screaming that they would like to pedal backwards through the door and the short privacy screen as fast as possible, but Harley keeps herself still and as non-threatening as she can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She'd never be able to run fast enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Cass, to her relief, gives another half-frustrated, half-bemused smile and shakes her head.  "No," she says, raising her swooping left eyebrow dramatically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley lets out the breath she was unnecessarily holding, her own sweet abs making a curling roll that transmits up through her pecs, then out across the smoothly curved expanse of her tits.  "Well," she says slowly, relieved at least a little, "Good, 'cos I ain't puttin' on purple and green for anyone, especially since that Katana jerk stabbed my Pammie!"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The short, terrifying Widow smiles a bit broader.  "Yes," is all Cass says, and Harley is beginning to suspect she's not the only prankster in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inclining her head towards Cass and a bit to the left, her long right leg turning out and tapping a bit, Harley grumbles.  "Aw, come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she pleads.  "You gotta give me </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>more t'work with!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking about it for a moment, the apricot-skinned woman purses her sweet lips, and nods.  Again, even that subtle motion shows off seemingly infinite, intricate muscles.  "Are you tired of how bad it's been?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harley rolls her eyes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Am I </span>
  </em>
  <span>tired?</span>
  <em>
    <span>  No.  I'm </span>
  </em>
  <span>pissed,</span>
  <em>
    <span> but I'm not sure of Bat-prankster enough to say that out loud.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  So she takes refuge in morbid humor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ya mean fighting all the time, barely able to trust other gals' words, only havin' my Pammie to watch my back an' keep Coney safe with a wall of giant thorns that turn to stone, but I'm the only source for food around here and I'm not lettin' babies starve or nothing?"  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But again, the "slender" ultra-combatant simply nods.  "Yes."  Her smile has turned grim, but something like real humor is there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dry humor, but humor.  So Harley rolls her eyes, tapping her foot rhythmically and making muscles and padding alike bounce and clench.  "Why would I be tired of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It also starts her jiggling back up again, but that's just a normal part of being a still-hyperkinetic Hunter.  And then increases again when Cassandra's ultimate poker face and-- Harley is now certain-- deliberate blandness turn more of Harley's nervousness into exasperation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You just said," is the only thing the Widow says in reply.  Now she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> smiling, her lips pulled back in a closed-mouth smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relaxing, Harley decides that if her host is going to make fun, she's not going to be left out.  "... You're a Hunter, Batba--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, the chill is back and smile evaporates the way stellar-cycle induction blasts would against that lightly colored skin.  "Please don't use that name," she says softly, but Harley's more inclined to sympathy than fear this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it's because Ivy, as loud as she likes to make her, "look upon me and desire!" body language, is silent in their mating bond.  Maybe it's because Harley herself used to have nerve damage all over her skin from the same Ace Chemicals bath that secured the Joker's distance from humanity.  Either way, she can pick up the subtle differences in Cassandra's voice and posture that tell her that none of this is done from vengeance or to threaten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reason Cassandra Cain puts up with being called the Widow of Gotham, Harley realizes, is because she is in mourning.  Whether Batman lives, is dead, or has become a ghost, and how permanent any of those conditions may be are open questions.  But by living as an unstarved Hunter, even one protective of her human "subjects," she is betraying the mentor who saved her with every breath she takes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are dead to each other no matter what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Harley has had enough of this particular gag.  "Okay, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk," she says with an exasperated sigh.  "And I happen to know you understand sarcasm."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, fer the love a'little green plants," Harley grumbles, and gently smooches the top of one of Ivy's roses.  As a signal not to worry, having pleasure not unakin to having her labia kissed is probably as unmistakable as Harley's own confidence rushing through the bond.  "Yer doin' that deliberately now!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Cass's smile is not only open, but heartwarming.  Almost cute, really.  Her elfin features and unusual shortness and slenderness making her look a lot like a heavily jacked version of teenagers Harley has seen on the edge of their adulthood Pulsing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," she says with a friendly laugh and a wink at Harley and Ivy.  "It's fun."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the niftiest conveniences about a sensorium is being able to see behind yourself without changing expression or facing.  The guards, big, brawny ladies that they are, both more than two and a half meters are, have schooled themselves not to </span>
  <em>
    <span>smirk</span>
  </em>
  <span> at more powerful guests like Harley or Ivy.  Still, there is real fondness in the smiles they do have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy squeezes Harley's hand, and the firm clench carries the empathic load of </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> reassurance.  Harley doesn't need to be able to hear her in the bond to know why, too.  That her guards are still polite is a sign they expect Ivy and Harley to be alive and important; that they're </span>
  <em>
    <span>fond</span>
  </em>
  <span> of their notoriously strict liege-lady is an excellent sign for the character of Cass's strictness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gotham may not have citizens who feel safe to walk above grounds, but it's said that the Bat-tunnels and fallbacks are the most extensive here.  Some rumors paint the human subjects of Gotham as being as terrified of Cass as they are of the rumored heavy resistance presence in UnderGotham.  Others call it a relative paradise of the new age, where humans who know how to kneel politely are in far less danger from Hunters than the Elixrate's more </span>
  <em>
    <span>reactive</span>
  </em>
  <span> approaches to managing Hunter-ness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heh," Harley says, calming more.  She nods, waving a hand out to the side.  "I can get the gag.  But what do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass closes her eyes, and less subtle pain mars her statuesque features.  Her powerful, compact Hunter-musculature trembles, not with rage, but with frustrated motion.  She surprises them again with a rather voluminous response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The women who should be my Pride are scattered, our pain and suspicion turned against each other.  I can barely get Helena to talk to me, but without Dinah we aren't balanced; and Helena wonders if we should not finish breaking rightness and hope that others would come."  She shakes her head, the natural revulsion at losing a bondmate twisting her supposedly impassive facial features and sending her super-defined musculature into tense relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She's actually really expressive,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harley notices.  Her angular facial bone structure, long lashes and eyebrows, and thin, striking eyes produce a very wide and complex set of expressions.  The reason for the difference is clear all of a sudden.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She wasn't just raised using body language as a first language.  She was raised to use it as a weapon, or at least a combat tool.  Of </span>
  </em>
  <span>course</span>
  <em>
    <span> she doesn't let people read her-- unless she's comfortable with you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever else is true, Harley is now certain that their shared past has brought the incredibly powerful Hunter to think of Harley and Ivy as trustworthy.  So she smiles.  "Wow, long… not-an-answer.  But-- don't do that, Cass.  Can I call you Cass?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."  As a running gag, it might be going a bit long.  But backed by a smile that shines like its own miniature Pulse, a teasing twist to her cheeks and brows-- yeah, Harley finds the renewed humor there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hah.  So-- no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't </span>
  </em>
  <span>give up."  Harley squeezes Ivy's hand firmly; the curvy "little" musclewoman, turns to press her plush tits over Harley's enormous, strapping arm and sides, cuddling close.  They both smile as Harley firmly says, "Believe me, it's worth it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, Cass is voluminous-- almost a chatterbox, though she </span>
  <em>
    <span>starts</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the usual singleton.  "Yes," she says softly, "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Longing erases her prior smile in an agonizing wave.  She looks up at Harley, almost pleading for the bigger, older woman to fix her broken heart.  It radiates from her pulled-back lips, a breathy sigh, and a brow so furrowed Harley wants to cry on her behalf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I think I need to make a home before Helena will calm," Cass continues, firm and fast.  "And it needs to be a place that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dinah </span>
  </em>
  <span>can come to when she realizes that Iron Discipline can't be moral on her behalf.  I just need to protect my subjects well until then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now the terrible, penetrating stare returns, and Harley realizes it's not hostile.  It's a measure of her determination to do what must be done, always.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The ones who call her the Widow of Gotham are almost right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dead or enemy, the spirit of the Bat lives on in this one.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harley is as certain of that as she is Ivy's love.  The urge to kneel slams into her with the same force she imagines Cass's fists might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do I want?" Cass asks, fierce of tone and face.  If her eyes were Hunter-tier lasers surrounded by a neutral mask, now they're narrowed infernos set in a face that Harley can't call elfin any more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except perhaps in the same sense as the Fair Folk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's what I need, Harley Quinn.  Harleen Quinzel.  I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to make a real province out of New York," she says, and abruptly points a finger right at Harley-- at Harleen.  "And you're the best source of food, and medicine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pride and territoriality snaps in Harleen now that fear is-- if not fled, sublimated a little at least.  "You challengin' me for Coney?" she asks, the Brooklyn in her voice turning low and growly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's aware that puffing out her larger chest and squaring her larger, broader shoulders are utterly ridiculous.  Especially faced with the woman who put the three meter Queen of the Stealer-surrounded Star Enclaves on her back.  But sometimes, even Harley can't completely avoid her Hunter reflexes, especially those that align with having been born Brooklyn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because that's kinda </span>
  <em>
    <span>rude</span>
  </em>
  <span>, plus--"  Harleen stops abruptly, blushing a bit, as Ivy slaps her palm over Harleen's tensing bicep, hard enough to sting.  Cass cuts her off, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It is Poison Ivy who makes the crops," the deadly ultra-predator notes…  Then beams at a similarly beaming Poison Ivy.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Treachery!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harleen pouts at Ivy.  Her concubine just smooches a green, aphrodisiac-filled lipmark on the red fingerprint from the slap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Cass says, chuckling quietly.  Her voluminous, shapely breasts shake along with her, rustling her robes.  "I want you as my </span>
  <em>
    <span>vassal</span>
  </em>
  <span>, preferably, or an ally if I cannot."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, she is the Widow of Gotham, deadly serious again.  Her terrifying muscularity and force of personality are so great that she seems to both be blurring and somehow more "clear" all at once.  The numerous, tightly developed and intricately shaped lines of her powerfully built body making even a half-casual pose look like a perfect combat stance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it is, but Harleen doesn't feel threatened.  She doesn't even feel like Cass is doing her version of the posing and flexing that even Harleen does to show off how well she can personally protect-- and fuck-- a vassal.  No, this isn't posturing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she feels like Cassandra Cain takes this matter intensely serious.  In a way that even the former harlequin queen of crime can agree.  And for much the same reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want you with me, Harleen, Ivy," the Widow says with soft severity.  "Because you care about them, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen nods slowly, then rolls her corded neck from side to side.  It ripples through her own strength; through the hawser-like muscles of her neck, through the huge roof of her traps and down across her back, and out to her heavyset delts.  "Yeah," she whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, they're all little ants," Harleen admits slowly.  "But I'm sick to death of the kind of boy who picks up a magnifying glass and chases 'em all down."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorts, and spits to the side.  "I ain't too happy with the kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>girl</span>
  </em>
  <span> who'd do that, neither.  Less so-- we're supposed to know better, ain't that what the Royal Divorcee types say?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," Cass says, calming.  The rippling tension flows out of her ferocious limbs, and she starts to look a little bit less like an army of super-martial arts masters all stuck occupying the same space.  "Will you help me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," Harleen says cheerfully.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Two can play at that gag, missy!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I gotta… Test ya, or somethin', o would-be boss-lady!  Even if </span>
  </em>
  <span>damn</span>
  <em>
    <span> do I feel a sudden surge in Hungers Ivy tried ta fill before we left, yum...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass waits, her gorgeous, angular features arranged into pleasant, patient repose.  Her hands move back beneath her voluminous breasts, resting the pinkies against her smoking hot shredded abs.  The last three fingers on each curl towards the palms, and touching each other while her pointer fingers and thumbs, extended full and straight into the classic "L," touch only at the fingertips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen tries to outwait her potential liege, she does.  Even entirely encircled by earth, save for a rather well-tuned privacy screen, her senses and her intellect give her plenty to do and think about.  Just plenty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass's fine, fine titties and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nummy</span>
  </em>
  <span> ass, for one.  Harleen would not mind having either smothering her face within agreed-upon limits, oh no.  She can think of all sorts of other things that one might do with access to them curves, not to mention contemplating those curves, in detail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivy's positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>spectacular</span>
  </em>
  <span> rack, if Harleen says so herself, and an ass that Harleen still believes to be far grander than even Cassandra's juicy, firm tush.  The guards' boobs.  The guards' butts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen's </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> rack.  It's nice!  Just because she knows it very well, doesn't mean she can't contemplate it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, she knows she needs to get more singularity loop equipment for leg day, but her heiny is thought-worthy, too!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, she has plenty of things to think about, oh yes.  And plenty of full-experience, full-body, full-sensation </span>
  <em>
    <span>stories</span>
  </em>
  <span> to tell herself.  The downsides to such… thinking… become rapidly clear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Especially since Cass waits serenely, as though whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> is thinking about has less consequences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Ivy groaning softly, squirming said aforementioned ass supreme in needy figure-eights while rubbing her cheek and jaw against her lipstick-mark…  Then pouting up at her… while growing quite deliciously wet…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen's own pussy starting to open the floodgates, while her demandypants clit begins to signal that Harleen had better make good on some of those </span>
  <em>
    <span>meditations</span>
  </em>
  <span> really quick…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, while none of it is exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>unwelcome</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it does make Harleen fidget.  Just a bit at first.  Clenching her huge glutes together, slapping the fat, bouncy cheeks atop together repeatedly-- but not too loudly, you know, if they weren't Hunters.  A bit of a wiggle in her hips, exaggerated by their lurid curves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cassandra Cain continues to wait.  Harleen considers the smirks on the guards' faces excellent provocation for punching, if only, you know.  Not for the gulf in protection.  Time for "friendly" face-punching afterwards, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon enough, Harley's thicc, thunderstorm thighs are trying to either cross over each other and grind their brawny heft against each other and over the increasing engorgement of her labia…  Or to open wide and offer Cass her pussy for a good new-fashioned fisting.  You know, season to taste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass just waits.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Point to the scary super-killer lady who frightens even her fellow Hunters into polite brawling, I guess</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wincing a bit and straightening her (soaked) shorts a bit, Harleen pouts.  "Ooh, you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>at that!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Cass inclines her head with continued serenity-- except for a flare of her nostrils and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> innuendo-laden quick lick of her lips-- Harleen stamps her foot, jiggles as per standard for her supremely curvy Hunter body, and continues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fine.  You know what I want?  I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don't </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to be someone's moll again…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen does her best to ignore Cass's teasingly skeptical look.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I'd make a great moll, if I wanted to.  But I don't, so I'm not saying that out loud!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even if Ivy and I would look totally smokin' on her arms, too.  Maybe at some fancy gala in Stately Wayne.  Talk about your power plays, yum!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She clears her throat, and continues.  "But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>also </span>
  </em>
  <span>don't wanna be the boss of more than Coney.  That's exhausting enough.  So I'll take lieutenant."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, there's no concealing just how damp her pussy has become, even from humans, of which there aren't any in the room, but still.  Cassandra Cain </span>
  <em>
    <span>instantly</span>
  </em>
  <span> disintegrates Harleen's nonexistent panties and makes her slit soak like she had three fingers inside Harleen and the other hand was spanking her.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cass was ordering Harleen to call her </span>
  <em>
    <span>mohelet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which she still hasn't managed when drugged enough on Ivy's smooches, what with the slurring and giggling.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass is beautiful, and more than a little unique in her contextually slender, mega-chiseled but "merely" super-amazonian bod.  And certainly, her exaggerated, dramatically curved hips, flowing into tautly-muscled, leggier than leggy legs, induce multiple types of drooling on sight.  Combined with her dark thematics and awe-inspiring intensity, Harleen and Ivy have been fighting feedback loops of shared lust since arriving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even while fighting off feedback loops of shared terror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the same force of personality that shone in Cass's earnest compassion and burned in her sternness smoulders in her lust.  The same good humor that marked her as fellow prankster still sparkles in her lidded, lustful gaze, but it only accentuates the sparks flying.  Now, when she swings her incredibly taut and striking hips towards Harleen, they include an Ivy-tier swagger, complete with the sort of ass-waggle that usually even her sister Hunters need high heels to achieve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or extra concentration on sub-flexing her glutes, which isn't the case.  Instead, her superb ass somehow seems to make each sashaying step forwards into a gyration so sensual it seems half-impossible that Cass </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> have some poor bastard's cock enveloped.  Fucking him with each bouncing wriggle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Compared to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the languid, almost figure-eight bounce and bobble of her enormous, elegant rack is…  Pretty damn hot, actually.  Perhaps not so much compared to as combined with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all of it is contextualized and enhanced by her manifold muscular definition and compounding tertiary musculature.  Every action is carried forth with precise, efficient muscle control, and just the right amount of power in each step.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wowsers</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the consensus of Harleen's multitasking assessment and sensory assemblage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Cass has strutted up to stand within arms' reach of Harleen and Ivy, Ivy has turned into Harleen's supporting arm.  Face burning, buried into the smooth sleeve of Harleen's leatheroid jacket, she bunches the sturdy material up with her fingers.  Flush against Harleen's powerful limb, she squirms her broad shoulders and broader hip up and down in rapid, snaking motions while gasping out an orgasm for the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass winks at Ivy, but reaches up to play her fingers over the top-center cleavage "cover" of Harleen's bustier.  Grinning smugly, she asks, "Don't want to fight for it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Huh-buh-whu?" Harleen intelligently babbles, before her eidetic memory smacks her upside the pigtails.  "Oh!  For whether or not you're the boss?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cass licks her lips, nice and slow, like one of Harley's adorababy hyenas getting ready to take another pack-wide go at poor, regenerating Waylon's limbs.  "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>," she growls.  Said adorababies have given Harleen a good sense of growls; this one is definitely mating-season material.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Heh-heh," Harleen chuckles, licking her own lips right back, thank you very much.  "Well-- don't you big leader-types supply masochistic Drive fulfillment?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen expects just another flat yes.  Instead, Cass smirks, and reaches up to stroke Harleen's cheek with her right hand.  "Psychologist," she sniffs, then tests the married pair's interest by reaching down with her left to lewdly cup and stroke Ivy's upturned asscheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unwilling to let the gag go, Harleen turns to sweetly kiss against Cass's supple fingers and cheerfully declares, "Yep!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirking an eyebrow and giggling in between horny little growls, Cass trails her fingers down Harleen's chin, over the taut, cable-like muscles of her neck, and over her powerful shoulders.  The same incredible talents for the human (and Hunter) body that make her a peerless warrior soon have Harleen's perkily plump hips wriggling in time with her concubine's, whining at the sensation that Cass has stroked a line of pure pleasure into her stiff muscles.  Then she solemnly sniffs, and taps the aphrodisiac kissmark while declaring, "Boop."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she flutters her fingers at Harleen.  "You don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.  You have Ivy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, she hasn't stopped rubbing her hand deeper and deeper under the leaf "concealing" Ivy's exquisite derriere, to Ivy's eagerly shared pleasure.  "You were askin'!" Harleen laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For fun, Harleen," Cass purrs.  "But if you'd like to make it a condition of your oaths-- my fee to acquire you, Ivy, and Coney in my fiefdom, perhaps?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's really flatterin', hearing how much more she wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>us</span>
  <em>
    <span> than just Coney.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Harleen's own grin moves ear to ear, salacious, silly, and in no small part, already adoring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harleen inclines her head towards Ivy, kissing the top of one of her crowning roses.  Harleen doesn't need the empathic link to translate her demure, submissive concubine's demanding growls and lusty whimpers into approval.  So she claps her hand on Cass's shoulder, and grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"... I like the way ya think, yer boss-lady-ma'am Widowship, ma'am!"  Then she winks.  "Lemme get my hammer and some bikini wax."</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <span>"Oh, Har</span>
  <em>
    <span>leen,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" Ivy sighs with horny-fond exasperation.  "That's </span>
  <em>
    <span>second </span>
  </em>
  <span>date material."</span>
</p>
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